WHAT    OUGHT    I    TO    DO? 


By  GEORGE  TRUMBULL  LADD 


WHAT  CAN  I  KNOW? 

An  Inquiry  into  Truth,  its  Nature,  the  Means 
of  its  Attainment,  and  its  Relations  to  the 
Practical  Life.  Crown  8vo.  pp.  viii-311. 

WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Kinds  of  Virtue 
and  into  the  Sanctions,  Aims,  and  Values  of  the 
Moral  Life.  Crown  8vo.  pp.  x- 311. 

WHAT  SHOULD  I  BELIEVE? 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature,  Grounds,  and 
Values  of  the  Faiths  of  Science,  Society,  Morals, 
and  Religion.  [  In  preparation  ] 

WHAT  MAY  I  HOPE? 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Sources  and  Reasonable- 
ness of  Human  Hopes,  especially  the  Social  and 
Religious.  [  In  preparation  ] 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 


AN  INQUIRY  INTO  THE 

NATURE  AND  KINDS  OF  VIRTUE 

AND  INTO  THE  SANCTIONS,  AIMS,  AND 

VALUES  OF  THE  MORAL  LIFE 


BY 

GEORGE  TRUMBULL  LADD,  LL.D. 

,  \ 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

FOURTH  AVENUE  &  30TH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 
LONDON,   BOMBAY,   CALCUTTA   AND   MADRAS 

1915 


.3-3 


COPYRIGHT,     1915 
BY  LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 


PREFACE 

THE  question,  What  can  I  know?  differs 
most  conspicuously  from  the  one  which 
it  is  now  proposed  to  consider,  in  respect 
of  the  point  of  view  from  which  the  latter  must 
be  surveyed  and  the  nature  of  its  answer  deter- 
mined. This  difference  is  plainly  expressed,  or  at 
least  irresistibly  suggested,  by  the  very  terms  in 
which  the  two  questions  must  be  couched  before 
they  can  be  laid  side  by  side  for  purposes  of  com- 
parison. It  is  not,  however,  the  difference  be- 
tween Knowing  and  Doing,  great  as  this  at  first 
blush  appears  to  be.  Knowing  is  itself  a  species 
of  doing;  and  there  is  little  or  no  high-class  con- 
scious doing  which  does  not  incorporate  into  the 
very  body  of  the  activity  —  be  it  one  of  a  rather 
low-class  muscular  sort,  so  far  as  external  appear- 
ances go  —  a  large  element  of  accompanying  cog- 
nitive activity.  Knowing  how  to  do  is  not  often 
a  completely  finished  achievement  before  the  deed 
itself  begins  to  be  done;  it  is  oftener  an  essential 
part  of  the  deed  itself. 

The  difference  to  which  we  have  just  referred 
as  most  conspicuous  is,  however,  expressed  in  the 
two  words  "can"  and  "ought."  The  latter  word 
introduces  a  distinction  which,  as  some  prefer  to 

[v] 


PREFACE 

hold,  sets  apart  a  certain  kind  of  doing  from  all 
other  kinds;  but,  as  we  incline  to  believe  and 
hope  to  make  clear,  the  feeling  of  obligation  ("I 
ought")  properly  applies  to  that  aspect  of  all 
human  activity  which  fitly  claims  to  receive  and 
which  in  fact  does  receive,  the  title  conduct,  in  the 
more  precise  meaning  of  this  term.  But,  of  course, 
what  I  ought  to  do  depends  in  large  measure,  if 
not  absolutely,  on  what  I  can  know;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  what  I  can  know,  by  no  means  infre- 
quently depends  upon  whether  I  do,  or  not,  what 
I  ought  to  do.  Knowledge  and  duty  can  no  more 
be  divorced  than  can  knowledge  and  deed.  And 
the  more  we  extend  the  idea  of  duty  over  the 
domain  of  deed,  the  more  do  the  problems  of 
knowledge  and  the  problems  of  morals  become 
interrelated  and  interdependent.  Thus  we  may 
be  led  on  to  speak  of  what  ought  to  be,  and  what 
ought  not  to  be,  with  respect  to  the  mental 
imagery,  the  secret  thoughts,  the  suppression  or 
the  indulgence  of  the  passions,  of  the  emotions 
and  the  sentiments,  even  before  they  have  even- 
tuated in  any  form  of  doing  which  others  can 
observe. 

It  is  quite  impossible,  then,  to  discuss  the  two 
questions,  What  can  I  know?  and,  What  ought  I 
to  do?  as  though  they  were,  either  in  nature  or  in 
practice,  and  whether  considered  chiefly  for  theo- 
retical satisfaction  or  for  the  guidance  of  life, 
without  almost  constant  reference  back  and  forth. 
And  yet  the  distinction  involved  in  the  two  words 

[vi] 


PREFACE 

"can"  and  "ought"  remains  all  through  the  dis- 
cussion in  unabated  force.  It  persists,  indeed,  in 
such  a  way  as  to  instigate  many  sharp  and  even 
rancorous  debates  between  ability  to  know  and 
obligation  to  do.  It  is  in  the  light  of  the  full- 
orbed  and  well-illumined  conception  of  person- 
ality that  all  these  debates  must  be  regarded;  it 
is  in  the  same  light  that  the  many  difficult  prob- 
lems involved  must  find  their  solution,  if  solution, 
complete  or  partial,  is  to  be  found  at  all.  For 
knowledge  and  faith,  duty  and  hope,  are  all  inter- 
related processes  of  the  one  rational  nature  of 
man.  And  so,  perchance,  by  discourse  about 
duty  we  may  lead  the  mind  from  the  assurance 
of  knowledge  to  some  of  the  comforts  of  believing 
and  the  privileges  of  hope. 


[  vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER                                       .^*-«,  PAGE 

I.  MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 1 

n.  WHENCE  COMES  THE  MESSAGE,  "I  OUGHT"?  .  30 

III.  ON  THE  INTENTION  OF  BEING  GOOD     ...  55 

IV.  ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 78 

V.  THE  FEELING,  "I  CAN";  AND  MORAL  FREEDOM  108 

VI.  THE  WEIGHT  AND  WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS.  139 

VII.  THE  MANY  VIRTUES    .      ...     ;     ...  158 

VIII.  Is  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 190 

IX.  CUSTOM,  OTHER  LAWSTAND  THE  MORAL  LAW  213 

X.  ON  SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE  .      .  236 

XI.  THE  FINAL  ISSUE 255 

XII.  MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 278 

INDEX  .  309 


"He  who  does  not  unconditionally  believe  in  the 
Might  of  Goodness  in  the  world,  and  in  its  final 
victory,  he  can  no  longer  lead  in  human  affairs  — 
/  do  not  say  rightly,  but  even  with  any  lasting 
success."  —  ROTHE. 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

CHAPTER  I 
MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

N  considering  any  question,  the  solution  of 
which  has  an  important  bearing  upon  our 
practical  interests,  it  is  desirable  to  know 
beforehand  something  definite  as  to  what  that 
particular  question  means  to  ask.  Such  knowl- 
edge is  especially  desirable  in  the  case  of  the 
question  we  are  about  to  raise.  What  ought  I 
to  do?  is  an  inquiry  which  demands  an  ever  recur- 
ring and  perpetually  shifting  answer;  and  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  most  puzzling  and  most  compli- 
cated. Consider  the  dramatic,  the  often  highly 
tragic  situations  in  which  individuals,  commu- 
nities, and  nations,  so  frequently  find  themselves 
as  they  ask  this  question!  Consider  their  various 
mental  attitudes  when  determining  the  result;  the 
choice  of  a  means  for  reaching  the  end  which  is 
sought;  or  of  doubt  about  a  plan;  or  of  ignorance 
as  to  some  special  factor  involved  in  both  plan 
and  means,  —  with  the  emotional  accompani- 
ments of  anger,  ambition,  hatred,  love,  hope,  or 
despair!  At  times,  this  inquiry  is  passionately 
thrust  forth  by  the  individual  inquirer  into  the 

[1] 


OTJGHT  I  TO  DO? 

darkness  of  night,  and  no  reply  from  the  sur- 
rounding darkness  ever  returns.  At  other  times, 
it  is  whispered  to  an  ally  in  some  base  conspiracy, 
or  is  frankly  proposed  to  a  trusted  counsellor 
and  friend.  Yet  again,  it  may  be  referred  on 
bended  knees,  from  the  full  but  silent  heart,  to 
Heaven  and  to  the  righteous  and  compassionate 
One  whom  faith  enthrones  there. 

But  now  if  we  change  our  point  of  view  from 
the  one  who  raises  the  question  in  a  very  concrete 
and  particular  way,  to  any  other  who  attempts 
to  answer  the  same  question,  its  difficulty  and 
complicated  and  uncertain  character  become  even 
more  apparent.  In  its  strictly  personal  form,  the 
answer  involves  consideration  of  the  strangely 
mixed  conditions  that  determine  the  character 
for  success  or  failure,  the  excellence  of  repute  or 
abundance  of  shame,  of  every  individual  life. 
Heredity,  environment,  and  what  for  a  better 
name  we  are  used  to  call  good  or  bad  luck,  are 
in  most  cases  the  determining  factors  of  what 
the  individual  actually  does;  and  —  too  often 
falsely  —  under  the  avowed  if  not  sincere  im- 
pression that  thus  he  ought  to  do.  Still,  even 
when  we  try  to  view  any  deed  as  mere  fact,  en- 
forced or  obscurely  produced  by  all  these  external 
factors,  there  is  something  in  all  cases,  and  in 
many  cases  there  is  much,  which  is  left  over  as 
it  were,  and  which  seems  to  arise  from  the  most 
profound  and  mysterious  depths  of  the  person 
himself.  How,  then,  shall  one  person  ever  ven- 
[2] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

ture  to  tell  another  with  any  degree  of  confidence 
precisely  what,  under  his  peculiar  circumstances 
and  with  his  matchless  —  however  seemingly 
ordinary  —  mental  and  moral  make-up,  that 
other  ought  to  do. 

This  pertinacity  of  individuality,  this  indisposi- 
tion to  be  told  by  others  with  a  voice  of  authority, 
not  to  say  with  the  voice  of  command  and  threat- 
ening, what  one  ought  to  do  in  matters  involv- 
ing personal  obligation,  is  not  so  fundamentally 
unreasonable  as  it  might,  on  first  consideration, 
easily  appear.  For,  as  we  shall  see  more  clearly 
in  the  sequel,  conduct  is  a  very  definitely  personal 
affair;  and  this  is  equally  emphatically  true, 
whether  we  consider  its  source,  its  essential 
character,  or  its  more  distinctively  moral  conse- 
quences. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  question,  What  ought 
I  to  do  ?  is  a  question  which  no  individual  can  ask 
himself,  much  less,  sanely  and  satisfactorily 
answer,  without  a  large  admission  into  the  account 
of  considerations  of  a  profound  and  wide-spread- 
ing social  order.  When  Buddhism,  in  order  to 
comfort  the  suffering  millions  of  India  who  were 
longing  somehow  to  "get  off  the  wheel"  of  life, 
with  whose  everlasting  turning  and  accompany- 
ing misery  the  tenets  of  orthodox  Hinduism  was 
tormenting  them,  denied  the  doctrine  of  the 
substantial  immortality  of  the  human  soul,  it 
was  obliged  to  find  a  substitute  in  the  scarcely 
less  terrible  doctrine  of  Karma.  The  necessity 

[3] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

was  not  due  to  the  fear  that,  if  the  terrors  of  a 
material  hell  were  removed  from  the  imagination 
of  the  common  people,  they  would  run  riot  in 
crime  and  immorality.  The  necessity  was  due, 
the  rather,  to  the  respect  of  the  philosophic 
mind  for  the  law  of  "ethical  causation."  This 
is  what  the  doctrine  of  Karma  really  is,  —  an 
extension  of  the  law  of  ethical  causation  into  the 
unseen  and  infinite  Beyond.  It  is  the  doctrine, 
as  says  the  Visuddhi-Magga:  "Between  Karma 
and  re-birth  consciousness  is  one  connection  of 
cause  and  effect;  between  sensation  and  desire 
is  a  connection  of  effect  and  cause;  and  be- 
tween existence  and  birth  a  connection  of 
cause  and  effect."  Or,  as  the  couplet  of  Schiller 
expresses  the  same  truth: 

"This  is  the  very  curse  of  evil  deed, 
That  of  new  evil  it  becomes  the  seed." 

Into  this  chain  of  "ethical  causality"  the  indi- 
vidual person  is  thrown,  and  in  such  a  way  that 
he  cannot  wholly  avoid  the  responsibility  for  the 
consequences  of  his  doing,  as  those  consequences 
fall  upon  others  in  an  endless  series  of  sequences, 
whether  the  substantiality  of  his  own  soul  be 
held  to  keep  him  somewhere  alive  to  note 
them,  or  not. 

No  individual,  then,  can  consider  the  question, 
What  ought  I  to  do  ?  as  having  meaning  for  himself 
alone.  It  has  its  meaning  —  and  not  infre- 
quently, its  most  distinctive  and  even  appalling 

[4] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

meaning  —  out  of  respect  to  the  relation  which 
the  individual's  doing  has  to  the  doing  and  the 
welfare  of  innumerable  others  in  the  persistent 
and  bewildering  complex  of  the  social  organiza- 
tion of  which  —  will  he  or  nill  he  —  he  is  an 
integrant  member. 

Now,  of  course,  society  has  itself  made  large 
and  on  the  whole  appropriate  provision  for 
dealing  with  this  law  of  "ethical  causality." 
Its  provision  consists  of  a  more  or  less  loose,  or 
in  many  cases,  of  an  extremely  rigid,  arrange- 
ment of  rewards  and  of  preventive,  or  corrective 
and  retributive  measures.  These  measures  have 
taken  the  form,  either  of  matured  and  consoli- 
dated opinions  laden  with  signs  of  approbation  or 
disapprobation;  or  of  customs  long  established 
or  recently  in  vogue  but  likely  to  be  during  the 
individual's  life-time  perpetuated;  or  of  private 
privilege  or  private  vengeance;  or  of  reward  and 
punishment  stamped  with  the  authority  of  law, 
or  legislative  resolution,  or  government  com- 
mission. Thus  is  the  social  rod  laid  heavy  on 
the  individual's  shoulders.  No  person  can  go 
far  toward  the  stage  when  he  inclines  to  take 
himself  more  intelligently  and  deliberately  in 
hand,  to  block  out  for  himself  a  course  of  conduct 
and  adapt  to  its  pursuit  the  means  which  he  has 
learned  to  believe  will  be  most  likely  to  prove 
successful  —  no  person  can  go  far  toward  this 
stage,  I  say,  without  becoming  aware  that  society 
has  already  laid  constraining  and  guiding  hands 

[5] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

on  him,  and  does  not  propose  ever  to  let  him  go. 
Even  in  the  hereafter,  if  the  individual  expects, 
whether  with  hopeful  longing  or  shrinking  dread, 
any  hereafter,  he  will  find  himself  under  this  law 
of  ethical  causation.  There,  too,  he  will  be, 
not  simply  as  a  lone  individual,  for  he  never  can 
be  that,  —  but  also  and  chiefly  as  a  member  of 
a  social  whole. 

Undoubtedly  this  fact,  that  generations  of 
preceding  men,  under  partially  similar  condi- 
tions to  those  which  surround  us,  have  determined 
how  we  ought  to  do,  and  how  we  ought  to  like 
to  do,  and  how  we  must  do,  whether  we  like  so 
to  do,  or  not,  is  a  most  fortunate  thing  for  the 
sanity  of  our  moral  conduct.  It  is  more  than 
this;  it  is  the  indispensable  condition  of  their 
being  any  moral  conduct  possible  for  us.  Imagine 
ourselves,  even  if  endowed  at  birth  with  far 
more  wisdom  and  insight  into  moral  principles 
than  we  can  ever  acquire,  set  down  in  a  world 
with  no  established  system  of  morals!  Neither 
prolonged  reasoning  nor  profound  insight  would 
serve  to  instruct  us  with  respect  to  the  proper 
course  of  conduct,  or  the  exactly  right  deed,  in 
some  of  the  least  complicated  situations  of  our 
daily  life.  About  the  things  of  morality  we 
should  not  know  more,  but  rather  less,  if  we 
separated  ourselves  from  all  our  fellow  men  and 
went  to  dwell  in  inaccessible  recesses  of  the  forest 
or  on  the  heights  of  the  mountain's  top.  To 
know  what  we  ought  to  do  even  there,  as  still 

[6] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

both  living  animals  and  rational  men,  we  should 
need  to  have  learned  from  the  race,  and  to  prac- 
tise what  we  had  learned  from  the  race. 

Now  so  imperative  and  wide-embracing  are 
the  counsel  and  the  command  of  the  social  factors 
of  moral  evolution  in  their  effect  upon  the  indi- 
vidual, that  not  a  few  professional  moralists, 
and  a  great  multitude  of  laymen  in  their  practice, 
are  fain  to  consider  these  factors,  under  the 
general  title  of  "custom,"  to  be  the  reservoir  for 
a  sufficient  supply  of  the  solvent  for  all  the  moral 
problems.  But  we  cannot  identify  custom  and 
morality.  The  moment  we  throw  into  its  baldest 
and  most  nakedly  ugly  form  this  body  of  a  moral 
principle,  the  man  of  the  right  mind  shrinks  from 
it  with  a  sort  of  concealed  or  half -patent  horror. 
Who  that  is  really  in  earnest  in  his  search  for 
an  answer  to  the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do? 
would  take  with  satisfaction  to  himself,  and  hug 
with  a  cool  brain  and  a  warm  heart,  the  ethical 
principle:  "Always  do  as  the  prevalent  custom 
advises  you  to  do"?  Thus  you  may  learn  how 
to  steal  and  yet  keep  out  of  jail;  to  commit 
adultery  and  keep  your  place  in  respectable 
society;  to  be  an  accredited  member  of  some 
church,  enjoy  its  privileges,  and  yet  quite  miss 
the  power  of  the  spirit  of  Jesus  over  your  inner 
life. 

We  are  not  contending  that  those  who  find  in 
custom,  as  falling  somehow  —  and  yet  it  must 
be  confessed  very  haltingly  and  obscurely  — 

[7] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

under  the  laws  of  a  so-called  economic  or  bio- 
logical evolution,  do  in  general  face  this  morally 
repugnant  way  of  stating  its  unquestioned  author- 
ity to  decide  for  the  individual  his  personal 
obligation.  They  seldom  venture  to  identify 
custom  with  righteousness,  that  which  is  in 
practice  with  that  which  ought  to  be.  Just 
now  we  are  trying  to  open  up  a  more  preliminary 
and  rather  different  phase  of  the  general  question. 
We  are  trying  to  find  out  its  meaning.  And  we 
seem  to  see  that,  while  its  meaning  undoubtedly 
implies  many  and  complicated  considerations 
of  an  existing  social  order,  in  relation  to  the 
moral  obligations  of  the  individual,  it  also  implies 
something  more  which  has  eminently  to  do  with 
his  peculiar  constitution  as  an  individual.  Or, 
as  we  have  already  said  the  question,  What  ought 
I  to  do  ?  is  a  question  the  answer  to  which  involves 
a  large  and  profound  conception  of  what  it  is  to 
be  a  person. 

In  order  to  make  more  clear  the  meaning  of 
our  question  it  is,  therefore,  necessary  to  consider 
four  particular  groups  of  thoughts,  ideas,  and 
emotions,  which  are  especially  embodied  in  its 
very  constitution.  The  first  of  these  four  is  this: 
The  inquiry,  What  ought  I  to  do?  has  reference 
only  to  persons  and  to  personal  relations.  It  is  /, 
a  person,  who  asks  this  question.  In  its  maturer 
and  more  deliberate  forms  it  is  always  a  question 
which  involves  and  reveals,  more  than  any  other 
question  which  it  is  possible  to  raise,  the  extent, 

[8] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

the  depths,  and  heights  of  the  rational  nature  of 
man.  We  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
most  intelligent  and  highly  trained  of  the  lower 
animals  ever  asked  itself,  much  less  ever  brooded 
over  or  sought  counsel  about,  any  similar  inquiry. 
The  animals  do,  indeed,  show  almost  unmis- 
takable signs  of  emotions  resembling  moral  shame, 
of  personal  loyalty,  and  of  self-sacrifice.  Perhaps 
we  are  not  to  be  led  away  into  doubt  about  the 
inward  quality,  from  the  ethical  point  of  view, 
by  such  authentic  stories  (and  they  are  innumer- 
able) as  Lloyd  Morgan  tells  of  the  cow  in  the 
steppes  of  Asia,  which,  after  steadfastly  refusing 
to  be  milked  unless  she  could  show  her  motherly 
tenderness  by  licking  the  effigy  of  her  calf,  pro- 
ceeded at  once,  when  she  had  broken  it  open,  to 
eat  complacently  the  straw  with  which  the 
effigy  had  been  stuffed !  For  are  there  not  human 
cannibals?  and,  Are  there  not  innumerable  mothers 
in  Christendom  who  neglect  and  abhor  their  own 
offspring?  Still,  the  strain  on  our  credulity  is 
rather  too  severe  when  we  try  to  picture  to  our- 
selves the  trained  horse  or  learned  dog  deliberat- 
ing over  a  problem  of  conduct  with  a  sense  of 
moral  obligation  in  any  definite  form  brooding 
over  him,  and  whispering  or  demanding  recogni- 
tion, as  rationally  entitled  to  be  a  prime  factor 
in  its  solution. 

To  be  sure  —  to  take  again  the  charitable  side 
of  a  somewhat  extreme  concessiveness  —  men  do 
not  by  any  means  always  or  even  customarily, 

[9] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

decide  the  moral  problem  in  any  highly  rational 
way.  They,  too,  the  oftener  act  from  habit,  or 
from  impulse, — often  enough,  from  almost  purely 
animal  impulse,  —  or  from  a  not  altogether  worthy 
fear  of  prevailing  custom  or  of  the  opinion  of 
others.  Even  if  the  unreflective  way  of  neglect- 
ing or  dodging  rather  than  answering  the  moral 
problem  were  much  more  frequent  than  it  is, 
this  would  not  destroy  the  force  of  the  truth  for 
which  we  are  contending.  In  all  the  various 
fields  of  human  activity  there  is  a  majority 
control  from  factors  that  are  automatic,  in- 
stinctive, blindly  impulsive  or  only  half -conscious. 
But  the  real  nature  of  the  personality  is  revealed 
only  when  it  breaks  through  and  rises  above  this 
level  of  physiological  mechanism  and  animal- 
psychical  organization.  What  moral  personality 
essentially  is,  we  can  learn  only  when  we  see  it 
at  its  highest  and  best.  A  sure  mark  —  and 
there  is  no  surer  mark  —  of  this  highest  and  best 
is  the  ability  to  raise  with  a  clear  consciousness 
of  its  import,  and  to  answer  with  a  deliberate 
choice,  the  question,  What,  then,  ought  I  to  do? 
And  so  far  as  any  animal,  four-footed  and  long- 
haired or  otherwise,  now  possesses  or  in  future 
develops  this  ability,  it  can  lay  valid  claim  to 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  specific  tokens 
by  which  we  know  the  person  as  more  than  a 
mere  animal. 

Another  aspect  of  the  claim  that  the  strictly 
moral  question  has  reference  only  to  persons  and 

[10] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

to  personal  relations  is  not  quite  so  easy  to  es- 
tablish beyond  reasonable  doubt.  Doubtless, 
only  a  person  can  ask  the  moral  question;  but  is 
it  true  that  the  doing  to  which  the  question  has 
reference  concerns  only  the  treatment  of  persons, 
the  behavior  of  the  person  only  as  respects  purely 
personal  relations? 

Not  a  few  of  the  older  systems  of  morals,  in 
their  attempts  at  classification,  recognized  duties 
to  the  animals  and  even  duties  to  things.  That 
the  way  a  man  treats  things,  whether  belonging 
to  himself  or  to  another,  and  even  when  the 
thing  has  no  obvious  owner,  may  be  considered  as 
a  matter  of  moral  concernment,  there  is  no  reason 
to  doubt.  To  abuse  things,  to  use  them  wrong- 
fully or  wastefully,  is  to  conduct  oneself  in  a 
way  not  quite  satisfactory  from  the  moral  point 
of  view.  This  is  especially  true  when  the  things 
thus  treated  are  things  that  have  life  in  them. 
To  hack  a  fine  old  tree,  to  tear  in  pieces  a  bloom- 
ing shrub,  or  pull  apart  a  beautiful  flower,  gives  a 
certain  shock  to  feeling  which,  when  analyzed, 
seems  almost  as  much  ethical  as  it  is  sesthetical. 
And,  indeed,  in  all  such  matters,  as  well  as  in 
those  of  greater  importance,  the  two  kinds  of 
feeling  are  closely  akin.  Much  more  does  our 
indignation  rise  when  we  survey  acres  of  blackened 
stumps  and  fallen  half-burned  trees,  brought  to 
this  sad  state  by  some  careless  band  of  hunters 
or  some  ruthless  lumber  company.  Nor  does 
this  indignation  seem  to  be  merely  a  manner  of 

[11] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

deploring  an  economic  blunder.  It  cannot  be 
admitted,  however,  that  such  vague  feelings  are 
indicative  of  a  rational  belief  that  mere  things 
have  rights  of  their  own  which  persons  are  bound 
to  respect.  That  persons  have  rights  in  things, 
and  that  in  dealing  with  things  one  person  may 
easily  violate  another  person's  rights,  is  easy 
enough  to  understand.  The  right  of  the  private 
person  or  of  the  public  to  enjoy  the  thing  in  its 
perfection,  or  in  the  height  of  its  beauty,  might 
make  the  destruction  of  a  tree  or  the  blackening 
of  a  landscape  a  moral  wrong  before  it  had  been 
made  a  crime  by  any  statute. 

There  is,  however,  something  still  subtler  about 
all  this,  and  of  an  evolutionary  character  with 
its  roots  lying  far  backward  in  human  history. 
Time  was  when  all  tribes,  and  nearly  all  indi- 
viduals in  all  tribes,  saw  in  every  thing  which  had 
life  the  indwelling  spirit  or  the  temporary  abode 
of  one  akin  to  themselves,  and  sensitive  —  pre- 
pared either  to  reward  or  to  avenge  —  about  the 
way  in  which  men  treated  the  material  form  in 
which  it  had  enshrined  itself.  To  defile  the 
spring  was  to  insult  its  spirit;  to  worship  the 
shrub  or  plant  with  its  mysterious  power  to  heal 
or  to  poison  was  to  propitiate  its  indwelling 
demon;  the  treatment  of  the  sacred  tree  was 
identical  with  that  of  the  very  god  whose  life  it 
thinly  veiled  or  clothed  in  mystery.  If  we  call 
a  feeling  of  respect  for  every  form  of  life  a  super- 
stition, it  is  a  superstition  that  lingers  in  the 

[12] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

blood  of  the  race,  —  however  diminished  in  the 
clearness  of  its  mistaken  conception,  and  however 
weakened  in  definite  connection  with  its  object. 
In  the  special  form  of  a  profound  feeling  of  kin- 
ship with  nature,  this  same  mental  and  quasi- 
moral  attitude  is  the  sentiment  inspiring  much 
of  the  best  of  poetry  and  the  finest  examples 
of  the  pictorial  art.  It  is  also  one  of  the 
most  potent  excitements  and  the  firmest  bases 
of  religious  worship. 

The  personal  reference  on  which  the  moral 
quality  of  all  conduct  depends  is,  if  not  less 
indirectly,  much  more  intensely  felt  in  man's 
treatment  of  the  lower  animals.  Unless  re- 
strained by  religious  scruples,  like  those  of  the 
Jain  who  will  not  eat  after  lamp-light  in  the 
evening,  lest  he  attract  some  moth  by  its  flame; 
or  by  some  form  of  superstition  like  that  which 
prevents  the  Hindu  from  killing  the  cobra,  lest 
its  spirit,  or  that  of  one  of  the  cobra's  ancestors, 
avenge  the  murder;  men  in  general  think  it  quite 
right  to  treat  most  of  the  lower  animals  as  though 
inferior  to  themselves  in  personal  dignity.  Here 
again,  strange  distinctions  intervene  to  prevent 
the  smooth  flowing  of  any  strict  rule  of  conduct. 
To  kill  the  sacred  cow  and  feed  with  its  flesh 
one's  starving  children  may  appear  the  most 
awful  sacrilege  for  the  Hindu  priest  who  would 
commend  the  self-murder  by  suttee  of  the  child- 
less widow  whose  property  he  wished  to  control, 
or  ascribe  merit  to  the  murderer  of  the  English- 
US  ] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

man  who  had  slaughtered  the  cow.  In  all  this, 
however,  —  as  it  seems  to  us, — the  thought 
underlying  remains  the  same.  We  regard  the 
animals  as  entitled  to  "good"  treatment,  accord- 
ing to  the  way  in  which  we  endow  them  with, 
and  regard  them  as  related  to,  our  own  personal 
life. 

The  truth  is  most  patent  in  a  rational  and 
honorable  form  among  those  individuals  and 
peoples  who  have  attained  the  higher  stages  of 
moral  culture.  We  recommend  the  wholesale 
extermination  of  flies  and  mosquitoes,  but  we 
reprehend  the  small  boy  who  takes  pleasure  in 
pulling  off  their  wings.  We  bring  corrective  and 
punitive  pains  to  bear  upon  men  and  even  upon 
children,  who  have  stepped  out  of  the  morally 
correct  path;  but  we  abhor  the  adults,  and 
regard  with  awful  forebodings  the  children,  who 
show  a  kind  of  horrid  pleasure  in  torturing  others 
of  their  own  kind.  Is  this  mere  sympathy  with 
the  pains  of  the  animals?  Is  it  mere  kindly 
appreciation  of  what  the  human  being  must  be 
suffering  as  judged  by  an  act  of  imagination 
putting  us  in  the  sufferer's  place?  We  do  not 
think  that  it  is.  At  least,  it  is  not  merely  this;  it 
is  this,  but  it  is  also  something  more  profound 
and  more  intimate  to  our  present  theme.  It  is  a 
lawful,  a  spiritual  shrinking  with  painful  fear 
and  abhorrence  before  the  disrespect  to  his  own 
personality,  the  breach  in  the  very  core  of  per- 
sonal life,  which  such  conduct  both  implies  and 

[14] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

creates.  To  take  pleasure  in  the  pain  of  other 
beings  is  inhuman,  is  unworthy  of  the  most 
untutored  candidate  for  the  distinction  of  a 
truly  personal  life. 

But,  second,  the  meaning  of  the  question, 
What  ought  I  to  do?  becomes  clear  only  when  we 
have  discovered  with  what  kind  of  doing  the 
question  is  concerned.  If  by  "doing"  we  under- 
stand mere  acting,  mere  accomplishing  of  some 
kind  of  an  effect,  we  have  as  yet  no  clew  to  the 
real  nature  of  our  problem.  The  doing  which 
comes  under  strictly  moral  considerations  must 
be  at  least  a  species  of  Conduct.  And  there  is  an 
important  difference  —  the  rather,  there  are  a 
number  of  important  differences  —  between  action 
and  conduct  properly  so-called.  A  machine  acts 
-right  or  wrong.  We  may  even  speak  of  it  as 
behaving  well  or  ill.  But  when  we  speak  of 
conduct  as  an  affair  of  moral  concernment  we 
imply  something  more.  The  action  must  be 
consciously  performed  or  bear  traces  of  habits 
consciously  formed  in  the  past.  It  must  appear 
somehow  to  emanate  from  the  Self,  to  be  an 
affair  of  the  will  so-called,  or  the  expression  of  a 
habit  to  some  extent  voluntarily  shaped. 

There  is  much  indeed  to  furnish  evidence  for 
that  theological  orthodoxy,  which  traces  itself 
back  to  Augustine  and  bases  itself  on  Calvin; 
but  which  has  besides  been  not  a  little  strength- 
ened by  the  modern  science  of  the  conditions 
governing  heredity.  Evil  tendencies,  as  esti- 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

mated  from  the  higher  points  of  view  secured  by 
centuries  of  moral  evolution,  have  the  appearance 
and  the  force  of  habits  established,  as  it  were, 
in  the  blood  of  the  race  by  the  conscious  wrong- 
doing of  centuries  of  our  ancestors.  Whether 
these  are  the  results  of  a  moral  fall,  as  orthodoxy 
was  once  accustomed  to  teach,  or  relics  of  the 
lower  moral  condition  out  of  which  the  currents 
of  human  life  have  been  slowly  rising,  as  modern 
science  likes  to  assume,  does  not  concern  our 
present  inquiry.  Whether  we  are  compelled  in 
any  case  to  assign  the  distinctive  feeling  of  moral 
approbation,  of  guilt  in  the  stricter  sense,  to 
actions  which  are  not  subject  to  the  individual's 
more  or  less  deliberate  choice,  is  just  now  of 
even  less  concern.  Conduct,  as  action  that  is 
conscious  and  voluntary,  is  the  subject  with 
which  morality  has  to  do. 

Another  characteristic  of  that  action  with 
which  the  moral  question  chiefly  is  concerned,  is 
this:  Conduct  implies  the  consciousness  of  an 
end,  and  some  knowledge  of  the  means  necessary 
for  the  attainment  of  an  end.  The  machine 
behaves  well  or  ill,  indeed;  but  it  does  not  know 
its  own  purpose  or  consider  the  means  for  the 
satisfactory  realization  of  that  purpose.  The 
moral  person  must  be  so  equipped  or  so  de- 
veloped as  to  be  able  to  do  this.  Indeed,  doing 
this  is  a  part  of  that  doing  which  is  worthy  to  be 
called  conduct. 

In  thus  defining  conduct  as  distinguished  from 

[16] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

mere  action,  we  are  not  limiting  unduly  the 
sphere  of  conduct,  the  truly  moral  sphere,  in 
man's  case.  We  are,  the  rather,  extending  it  over 
its  complete  legitimate  domain.  For  in  man's 
case,  all  his  doing  may  become  a  species  of  con- 
duct. As  we  have  elsewhere  said  ("  Philosophy 
of  Conduct,"  p.  11) :  "Moral  action  is  not,  indeed, 
a  specific  kind  of  action,  set  apart,  as  it  were,  for 
some  definite  species  of  external  performances, 
to  the  exclusion  of  other  species.  In  fact,  the 
presence  of  ethical  ideals  is  to  be  discerned  in 
everything  which  man  consciously  and  volun- 
tarily does.  Higher  or  lower  degrees  of  these 
characteristics  of  all  conduct  are  actually  found 
as  far  back  in  history,  as  low  down  in  ethical 
and  intellectual  degradation,  as  we  can  follow 
the  development  of  humanity.  In  his  eating 
the  adult  human  being  does  not  merely  feed. 
In  his  drinking  he  does  not  merely  swill  his  drink. 
He  raises  the  social  cup,  he  pours  out  a  libation 
to  the  gods;  and  the  gods  at  any  rate  must  be 
treated  politely  by  the  most  shameless  and 
gluttonous  of  cannibals.  And  where,  as  among 
the  various  Hindu  castes  in  India,  custom  and 
morality  and  religion  are  so  confused  as  to  con- 
stitute a  pretty  complete  enslavement  of  all  the 
activities  and  interests  of  human  life,  the  neces- 
sity and  validity  of  this  distinction  are  all  the 
more  to  be  emphasized." 

But  much  more  than  this  is  true,  and  in  a 
most   important   way.     It   is   not   external   per- 

[17] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

formances  which  alone  constitute  the  legitimate 
sphere  of  the  moral  problem.  As  has  already 
been  said:  thoughts,  opinions,  emotions,  and 
purposes  constitute  also  the  kind  of  doing  about 
which  men  ask  themselves  whether  they  ought, 
or  ought  not.  Ought  I  to  think  this?  is  by  no 
means  always  a  simple  question  of  logic  or  a 
problem  to  be  solved  like  one  taken  from  a  book 
on  arithmetic  or  algebra.  It  is  often  a  problem  of 
the  moral  life,  a  question  which  cannot  be  solved 
without  revealing  and  confirming  character.  How 
should  I  feel  about  this?  or,  How  should  I  feel 
toward  this  or  the  other  person?  —  these  are  not 
questions  merely  of  social  or  public  policy;  they 
are  also  questions  the  answer  to  which  wells  out 
of,  and  ebbs  back  into,  the  deepest  springs  of  the 
moral  Self. 

But  there  is  yet  another  distinction  which 
must  be  clearly  made  if  we  are  to  understand 
the  full  meaning  of  the  inquiry,  What  ought  I  to 
do?  And  this  is  the  most  important  of  all  the 
distinctions  which  define  the  true  sphere  of 
morality.  Such  is  the  distinction  between  the 
fact  of  that-which-is  and  the  idea  of  that-which- 
ought-to-be.  We  are  not  now  raising  a  mere 
question  of  history;  although  we  shall  have  to 
take  history  largely  into  our  confidence  in  order 
satisfactorily  to  answer  the  question  we  are 
raising.  Nor  can  we  get  its  answer  simply  by 
observing,  however  acutely  and  in  broad  cos- 
mopolitan fashion,  the  actual  ways  of  behaving 

[18] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

themselves  which  stamp  in  a  characteristic  manner 
the  various  tribes  and  peoples  of  earth's  millions. 
For  our  present  purpose,  eat  human  flesh,  when 
you  are  among  cannibals,  or  hunt  human  heads, 
when  you  are  living  with  the  wild  tribes  of  For- 
mosa or  of  the  Philippines,  is  no  whit  less  helpful 
than  the  time-honored  maxim,  "When  you  are 
in  Rome,  do  as  the  Romans  do."  Indeed,  when 
you  are  in  India,  the  maxim,  "Do  in  many  respects 
as  do  the  Anglo-Indians  who  have  grown  wise  in 
matters  of  behavior  through  long  residence  there," 
may  be  a  matter  of  prudence;  and  the  prudent 
care  of  one's  health  and  the  husbanding  of  one's 
bodily  resources  is  no  mean  virtue.  Thus,  to 
follow  the  custom  may  become  matter  of  grave 
moral  concernment.  But  this  very  fact  serves 
to  emphasize  the  distinction  upon  which  we  are 
insisting.  Again  we  are  forbidden  to  identify 
the  simple  fact  of  custom  and  the  conduct  which 
our  idea  assures  us  ought  to  be. 

Now  the  words  "ought  to  do,"  like  the  words 
"ought  to  be,"  imply  some  sort  of  an  idea,  or 
mental  image  of  a  pattern,  to  which  the  fact  may 
be  referred  and  with  which  it  may  be  compared. 
Such  an  idea  we  are  wont  to  call  an  "ideal." 
An  ideal  is  an  idea  of  that  which  is  better  than 
the  actual;  or  sometimes,  but  rarely,  of  that 
which,  amongst  all  the  actual,  is  the  best  con- 
ceivable and  needs  no  excellences  or  virtues  to  be 
added  to  complete  its  perfection.  Thus  we 
sometimes  say  —  generally  in  a  burst  of  generous 

[19] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

or  thoughtless  enthusiasm :  —  That  poem  or  that 
painting  is  "ideal."  We  may  even  speak  of  the 
workmanship  of  the  artisan,  or  of  the  inventor 
of  a  piece  of  mechanism,  in  similar  terms.  But 
there  is  apt  to  be  much  exaggeration  in  all  this; 
and  if  such  praise  were  in  general  really  true,  it 
would  be  a  misfortune  both  to  the  workman  and 
to  the  race.  For  ideals  are  intended,  in  the 
Divine  economy,  to  nourish  an  irritating  or 
exciting  dissatisfaction  with  all  that  only  is,  but 
does  not  as  yet  conform  with  our  advancing 
notion  of  that  which  ought  to  be. 

The  moral  ideal  —  the  idea  of  conduct  to 
which  the  fact  of  conduct  ought  to  correspond  — 
is  peculiar,  not  only  as  idea,  but  especially  as 
ideal.  Of  material  things,  of  things  which  have 
to  our  thought  no  semblance  of  life  in  them,  we 
say  that  they  ought  to  be  or  to  work  in  this  way; 
and,  on  the  contrary,  ought  not  to  be  or  to  work 
in  that  way.  Imagination  might  picture  an 
ideal  machine  as  one  that  would  work  wholly 
without  friction;  but  this  is  an  ideal  which  can 
never  be  actualized.  An  ideal  machine,  then, 
might  the  piece  of  workmanship  be  considered 
which  came  the  nearest  to  a  maximum  of  effi- 
ciency and  a  minimum  of  friction.  In  the  true 
realm  of  the  ideal,  of  the  ideas  that  have  value, 
the  poem,  the  painting,  the  musical  composition, 
the  artistic  achievement  which  best  satisfies  those 
who  best  know  the  canons  and  the  higher  aims 
of  the  art,  deserves  in  a  way  to  be  called  a  fine 

[20] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

example  of  the  ideal.  But  seldom  or  never  does 
the  artist  himself  feel  the  satisfaction  of  having 
achieved  in  fact  that,  than  which  no  better  can 
even  be  imagined  or  thought.  His  ideal  is  ever 
higher  and  above  his  realized  fact. 

In  judging  natural  objects  and  scenes  our 
method  is  somewhat  similar  but  by  no  means  the 
same.  It  is  not  enough  similar  to  make  it  possi- 
ble, from  this  point  of  view  at  least,  to  treat  of 
ethics  as  a  purely  natural  science.  The  rather 
must  it  be  —  whatever  else  it  is  or  is  not  —  a 
study  of  the  ideal.  We  do  hesitate,  however,  to 
criticise  harshly,  or  in  an  unrestricted  way  to 
commend,  the  works  of  nature  as  viewed  from  the 
point  of  view  of  our  human  ideals.  Some  natural 
objects  are,  indeed,  made  in  such  a  way  that 
they  seem  to  our  minds  quite  ideally  beautiful, 
or  ideally  serviceable  to  what  we  seem  bound  to 
conjecture  is  their,  as  the  phrase  is,  "natural 
aim."  But  other  things  seem  horrid  and  ugly, 
or  so  misshapen  and  overgrown,  like  the  dinosaurs 
and  ichthyosaurs,  that  they  deserve  the  fate  of 
extinction  which  in  fact  came  to  them.  Such 
monsters  and  freaks  ought  not  ever  to  have  come 
into  existence;  or,  having  somehow  by  favoring 
circumstances  or  brute  weight  and  strength 
fought  their  way  into  being,  they  ought,  by  the 
weight  of  gravity  and  the  superior  strength  of 
natural  forces,  to  have  been  somewhat  speedily 
suppressed. 

So,  too,  we  are  strongly  inclined  to  regard  much 

[21] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

of  the  behavior  of  Dame  Nature  as  grossly  incon- 
siderate or  horribly  cruel,  —  highly  immoral  on 
the  surface,  if  not  clear  to  the  core.  How  can 
she  so  disregard  the  suffering  of  her  children  and 
her  own  ruthless  waste  of  countless  multitudes 
of  the  best  of  her  offspring?  If  she  affords  the 
sublimity  of  the  starlit  sky  and  the  glorious 
coloring  of  the  setting  sun  to  all  eyes  alike;  why 
has  she  made  the  blinding  of  so  many  eyes,  both 
from  within  and  from  without,  so  inevitable? 
And  what  about  the  earthquake  and  the  volcanic 
eruption,  or  the  scourge  of  cholera  and  the  Black 
Death,  as  regarded  in  the  light  of  purely  ethical 
codes  for  disciplining  and  improving  the  human 
race? 

Now  there  are  two  ways  of  regarding  such 
questions  as  the  foregoing,  the  merest  mention 
of  which  may  suggest  a  dim  ray  of  light  to  be 
thrown  upon  our  problem  by  future  reflection  in 
more  intense  and  broad  form.  Let  us,  first  of  all, 
say  to  ourselves  that  such  questions  as  these 
have  absolutely  no  application  to  the  system  of 
natural  phenomena  or  to  any  part  of  it.  Let  us 
agree  with  ourselves  that  Nature,  even  when  you 
spell  the  word  with-  a  capital  (an  honor  we  gen- 
erally reserve  for  the  Divine  Being  of  the  World), 
is  really  no  sort  of  a  "dame,"  -beldame,  or 
otherwise;  and  that,  when  we  speak  of  it  all  in 
terms  of  personification,  we  are  using  an  absurd 
figure  of  speech.  But  somehow  this  purely 
machine-like  conception  of  the  system  of  things 

[22] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

does  not  seem  quite  to  satisfy  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  those  who  most  loudly  proclaim  their 
confidence  in  it.  For  when  this  same  system 
of  things,  or  any  considerable  part  of  it,  treats 
them  to  unmerited  pain  or  disappointment,  they 
do  not  consider  the  absurdity  of  regarding  such 
treatment  as  throwing  any  light  on  the  charac- 
ter of  the  source,  whether  it  be  good  or  ill.  Few 
men,  when  the  grievance  they  suffer  is  personal, 
can  quite  refrain  from  returning  to  the  giver  the 
appropriate  personal  attitude  of  thought  and 
feeling.  But  how  can  one  speak  of  ends  and 
aims  and  behavior  as  though  it  had  moral  quality, 
when  the  talk  is  all  of  a  purely  impersonal  self- 
evolving  and  incomprehensible  mechanism?  And 
yet  it  is  an  almost  inescapable  part  of  our  human 
conception  of  this  same  machine,  called  Nature, 
that  it  should  be  regarded  and  addressed  in 
personal  terms. 

Quite  the  opposite  is  the  attitude  toward  the 
operations  of  Nature  assumed  by  the  Stoic  slave 
Epictetus.  "What,  then,  must  my  leg  be  lame?" 
(the  leg  was  his  very  own),  he  asks  in  one  of  his 
Discourses.  "And  is  it  for  one  paltry  leg,  wretch, 
that  you  accuse  the  universe?  Can  you  not 
forego  that,  in  consideration  of  the  whole?  Can 
you  not  give  up  something?  Can  you  not  gladly 
yield  it  to  him  who  gave  it?"  Still  farther  away, 
on  the  opposite  side,  are  those  who,  when  the 
world  of  things  and  of  men  is  crushing  them, 
pray  the  prayer  of  Jesus:  "If  it  be  possible,  let 

[23] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

this  cup  pass  away  from  me;  nevertheless,  not 
as  I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt." 

Unlike  as  are  these  personal  attitudes  toward 
the  natural  system,  toward  the  world  of  things 
and  of  men,  as  respects  the  spirit  which  prompts 
and  expresses  itself  in  them,  they  still  have  one 
common  characteristic.  They  all  assume  a  quasi- 
moral  character  to  the  universe  as  related  to 
affairs  which  are  certainly  of  the  gravest  moral 
concernment  to  the  individual  man  and  to  the 
entire  human  race.  There  is  also  this  common 
feature  to  these  differing  attitudes;  and  it  is  a 
feature  that  accounts  in  no  small  measure  for 
the  differences  themselves.  The  universe  is  a 
vast  and  mysterious  affair.  No  one  aim,  or  set 
of  rules  for  strictest  observance  in  its  behavior, 
whether  as  derived  from  the  points  of  view  held 
by  the  positive  sciences,  or  from  those  accepted 
by  the  faiths  of  religion,  avails  to  explain  it  all. 
What  is  this  complex  system  trying  to  bring 
about?  What  is  its  idea  to  accomplish,  the  end 
toward  which  its  self -evolution  points  forward? 
What  is  the  ideal  to  which,  fraught  with  most  of 
happiness  or  fraught  with  most  of  suffering  to  the 
human  race,  the  World- whole  is  ever  reaching  for- 
ward? And  what  in  particular  does  it  mean  to  do 
with  me?  Is  it  friend  or  foe  to  my  highest  happi- 
ness, not  to  say  my  loftiest  attainments  in  morality? 

Here,  then,  a  most  curious  and  quite  generally 
painful  conflict  arises.  Nature  seems  to  simulate 
what  we  are  forced  to  regard  as  moral  behavior; 

[24] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

behavior  which,  at  any  rate,  constitutes  the  chief 
determinates  of  our  moral  ideals,  and  of  our  rules 
for  estimating  the  moral  quality  of  our  own 
doing.  But  nature  does  not  appear  altogether 
to  conform  to  our  ideals  and  to  the  rules  which 
she,  whether  arbitrarily  or  rationally,  imposes 
on  us.  Again,  then,  we  are  thrown  back  on  the 
conclusion  that,  although  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  has  no  meaning  except  as  applying 
to  a  distinction  between  fact  of  what  is  done  and 
some  ideal  of  a  better  thing  which  might  conceiva- 
bly be  done,  we  cannot  derive  the  full  nature  of 
this  distinction  from  external  sources.  We  must 
look  into  the  soul  and  there  discover  what  are  the 
so-called  faculties  concerned  in  moral  action; 
and  most  especially,  what  is  the  ideal  which  the 
soul  sets  itself  as  a  mental  pattern  to  incite  and 
guide  its  better  and  better  doing,  its  true  and 
rational  moral  evolution. 

The  fuller  quest  for  the  moral  ideal  must  wait 
its  proper  place  among  the  several  questions 
subordinate  to  our  main  inquiry.  But  there  is 
one  thing  which  may  as  well  be  said  at  once,  for 
its  truth  is  beyond  all  dispute  and  is  not  much 
liable  even  to  controversy.  And  this  is  that 
truth:  The  moral  ideal  is  the  ideal  of  conduct  in 
social  relations.  In  saying  this  we  have  harked 
back,  without  bending  our  ear  to  the  far  cry, 
and  have  come  upon  the  same  trail;  and  we  listen 
again  to  the  call  which  summons  us  in  the  same 
direction,  if  we  wish  to  be  "in  at  the  capture  of 

[25] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  brush."  We  see  again  that  the  question, 
What  ought  I  to  do?  concerns  the  gaining  and  the 
following  of  a  personal  ideal,  the  conducting  of 
ourselves  as  persons  and  in  personal  relations, 
according  to  an  idea.  The  idea  is  an  ideal, 
which  evinces  the  proper,  the  improved  pattern, 
of  personal  character  and  of  personal  intercourse. 
We  must  start  out  from  this  point  of  view  and 
keep  as  close  as  possible  to  the  trail  which  it  will 
blaze  through  the  thickest  forest  for  us,  if  we 
would  emerge  into  the  clearer  and  fuller  light 
on  the  other  side.  It  would  be  a  convenience, 
perhaps,  if  we  could  adopt  the  major  premise 
from  which  the  same  slave  but  Stoic  philosopher 
sallies  forth  to  conquer  all  the  practical  problems 
of  life  in  his  Discourse:  "How,  from  the  doctrine 
that  God  is  the  Father  of  men,  we  may  proceed 
to  its  Consequences."  For  he  truly  says,  "//  a 
person  could  be  persuaded  of  this  principle  as  he 
ought,  that  we  are  all  originally  descended  from 
God,  and  that  he  is  the  father  of  gods  and  men, 
I  conceive  he  would  never  think  of  himself  meanly 
or  ignobly."  But  for  us  it  would  be  both  illogical 
and  unhistorical  at  once  to  assume  that  "if." 
Before  we  "proceed  to  the  consequences"  of  this 
preliminary  survey  of  the  meaning  of  our  inquiry, 
we  must  add  another  to  the  distinctions  already 
mentioned,  which  the  question  itself  seems  irre- 
sistibly to  imply. 

The  question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  is,  essentially 
considered,  a  social  question.  That  much  of 

[26] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

the  answer  to  this  question  is  forced  upon  us  by 
society,  we  have  already  seen;  that  all  its  answers 
must  regard  the  interests  of  society,  we  now  con- 
fess. No  individual  can  so  separate  himself 
from  other  men,  or  can  find  himself  so  separated 
by  what  may  appear  to  him  as  an  unsought  and 
abhorred  destiny,  so  stark  alone  in  the  world  of 
men,  as  altogether  to  deprive  his  individual 
question,  even  when  asked  under  just  those 
special  circumstances,  of  its  social  implications 
and  social  concernment.  If  he  is  about  to  com- 
mit suicide,  because  the  world  which  "owes  him 
a  living"  has,  instead  of  furnishing  that  living 
to  his  mind,  deprived  him  of  the  last  penny  and 
of  the  last  apparent  chance  of  earning  another 
penny,  still  he  "ought"  to  give  the  world  one  more 
chance  and  yet  another  after  that,  to  pay  the 
debt  it  owes.  He  —  the  penniless  —  ought  not 
to  act  as  impulse  from  despair  prompts  him 
to  act,  without  considering  whether  it  is  right  to 
leave  to  others  an  example  of  cowardice,  and  to 
cause  them  the  expense  of  a  pauper's  funeral,  or 
the  far  greater  crime  of  refusing  to  make  that 
burial  decent  and  pitifully  sympathetic  with  the 
woes  and  failures  of  one  of  their  fellows.  To  say 
this  is  not  to  proclaim  the  absolute  immorality  of 
suicide;  it  is  not  even  to  decide  upon  the  moral 
right  or  wrong  of  the  deed  proposed,  but  to  show 
that  no  deed  can  be  taken  apart  from  the  rights 
and  wrongs  of  the  society  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  deed  is  done. 

[27] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

But  every  lonely  individual's  deed  is  a  matter 
of  social  significance,  and  of  judgment  from  the 
social  point  of  view,  in  a  deeper  meaning  than 
that  which  has  thus  far  been  indicated.  Without 
applying  some  social  standard,  no  individual  can 
possibly  understand  what  he  himself  really  is  as 
a  moral  being,  or  what  it  is  really  his  duty  —  no 
matter  how  peculiar  and  isolated  the  circum- 
stances—  to  do.  Of  each  individual,  in  all 
circumstances,  Goethe's  dictum  remains  true: 

"The  gage  that  from  himself  he  takes 
Measures  him  now  too  small  and  now  too  great." 

In  other  words:  For  self -understanding  a  knowl- 
edge of  other  men  is  indispensable.  For  arriving 
at  some  reasonable  conclusion  as  to  how  we 
ought  to  act,  it  is  necessary  to  exercise  our  powers 
of  observation  to  determine  how  others  actually 
do  act,  and  our  powers  of  imagination  to  picture 
to  ourselves  how  these  others  ought  to  act.  We 
may  be  tolerably  sure  that  we  shall  not  ordinarily 
exceed  the  measure  of  obligation  which  ought 
to  be  self-laid  upon  ourselves,  if  we  adopt  for  its 
standard  the  obligation  we  lay  upon  the  other 
man.  This  is  the  parable  of  the  mote  in  our 
brother's  eye;  and  the  whole  stick  of  timber  that 
is  in  our  own  eye.  Wholly  out  of  social  connec- 
tions and  relations,  the  origin,  the  nature,  the 
rule,  and  the  ideal  of  morality  are  unobtainable 
and  even  inconceivable. 

Two  remarks  may  fitly  close  this  attempt  to 

[28] 


MEANING  OF  THE  QUESTION 

expose  the  meaning  of  the  question,  What  ought 
I  to  do?  Although  it  is  a  question  which  goes 
beyond  the  facts  of  conduct  as  they  are  apparent 
when  embodied  in  custom  and  in  law;  although 
it  is  a  question  which  does  not  emerge  in  con- 
sciousness, is  indeed  no  question  at  all,  until  we 
recognize  the  presence  of  the  ideal,  it  is  not  a 
question  that  deals  with  thoughts  merely  or  that 
cuts  itself  loose  from  a  firm  footing  in  the  real 
and  hard  facts  of  human  life.  Indeed,  the  ideal, 
or  ideas  of  value,  with  which  the  question  comes 
to  deal,  and  which  its  very  form  of  statement 
presupposes,  are  themselves  facts.  As  Wundt 
has  well  said:  "The  estimate  of  the  value  of  facts 
is  also  itself  a  fact,  and  a  fact  which  must  not  be 
overlooked  when  it  is  there  to  see." 

Another  important  truth  to  be  borne  in  mind 
during  all  our  subsequent  work  in  raising  and 
answering  questions  is  this:  There  has  been  an 
evolution  in  morals,  whether  under  this  term  we 
bring  the  various  theories  and  doctrines  as  to 
what  conduct  ought  to  be,  the  ideals  of  morality, 
or  the  historical  statement  of  the  doings  of  men, 
the  assemblage  of  facts  as  to  what  the  right  and 
wrong  of  conduct  have  actually  been.  Hence  the 
mixture  of  considerations  and  interests  that  are 
inextricably  involved  in  the  inquiry,  whether 
raised  for  the  individual  or  for  the  race:  "What 
ought  to  have  been,  and  what  ought  now  and  in 
the  future  to  be  done,  when  doing  is  regarded 
from  the  moral  point  of  view?" 

[29] 


CHAPTER  II 

WHENCE  COMES   THE  MESSAGE: 
"I  OUGHT"? 

rO  reflect  seriously  on  the  meaning  of  the 
question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  can 

J_[  scarcely  fail  to  afford  one  something  more 
than  a  mere  doubtful  clew  to  an  answer.  The 
answer  thus  afforded,  however,  although  it  is 
instructive  and  inspiring,  is  somewhat  too  general 
and  vague  to  be  wholly  satisfactory.  But  before 
we  pass  on  with  our  attempt  to  develop  it  into 
fuller  details,  and  in  this  way  render  it  more 
practically  available  and  valuable,  let  us  sum 
up  the  results  of  the  analysis  completed  in  the 
last  chapter.  To  give  it  the  practical  look  which 
our  main  purpose  requires  us  to  keep  constantly 
in  view,  we  will  throw  our  analysis  into  the  form 
of  certain  exhortations:  and  there  should  be  four 
such  exhortations,  corresponding  to  the  four  groups 
of  ideas,  types  of  thinking,  and  experiences  of 
emotion  and  sentiment,  which  were  found  to  be 
embodied  in  the  question  itself. 

Whoever,  then,  once  raises  intelligently  and 
deliberately  the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do  ? 
should  exhort  himself  to  remember  that  he  is  a 

[30] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

person  and  is  capable  of  entering  into  personal 
relations;  and  that  he  should  behave  accordingly. 
This  implies  some  appreciation  of  the  worth  of 
personal  life  and  a  peculiar  respect  for  all  persons 
-  one's  own  self  and  all  other  selves.  In  Kant's 
celebrated  treatise  on  the  "Practical  Reason" 
he  at  first  makes  the  essence  of  all  morality  con- 
sist in  respect  for  the  moral  law.  But  he  is 
quickly  forced  virtually  to  admit  that  this  lands 
the  subject  in  mere  abstractions;  for  it  is  only 
persons  that  can  form  the  conception  of  such  a 
law,  or  have  the  power  of  will  necessary  to  obey 
or  to  disobey  it.  And  so,  after  quoting  Fontenelle's 
saying,  "I  bow  before  a  great  man,  but  my  mind 
does  not  bow,"  Kant  goes  on  to  declare:  "Be- 
fore a  humble,  plain  man  in  whom  I  perceive 
uprightness  of  character  in  a  higher  degree  than 
I  am  conscious  of  it  in  myself,  my  mind  bows, 
whether  I  choose  it  or  not,  and  though  I  bear  my 
head  never  so  high  that  he  may  not  forget  my 
superior  rank." 

But,  again,  whoever  raises  this  question  should 
remember  that,  being  a  person,  he  is  capable  of 
conduct,  as  distinguished  from  mere  action;  and 
that  it  is  to  conduct  that  the  rules  and  injunc- 
tions of  morality  apply.  To  answer  the  ques- 
tion, What  ought  I  to  do  ?  it  is  therefore  necessary 
to  act  with  a  consciousness  of  ends,  in  view  of 
mental  pictures  of  that  which  is  preferable  in 
conduct,  from  the  moral  point  of  view;  and  with 
the  exercise  of  choice  in  order  to  realize  this 

[31] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

preference  in  habits  of  doing  as  well  as  indi- 
vidual deeds. 

And  now,  signalling  for  selection  the  most 
conspicuous  and  easily  discernible  characteristic 
of  that  which  is  moral,  whoever  asks  the  question 
must  be  ever  diligent  to  answer  it  in  view  of  the 
message,  "I  ought";  or,  —  to  reverse  the  guide- 
board  to  right  conduct  and  read  its  other  side, — 
of  the  message:  "I  ought  not."  This  message, 
—  as  we  shall  see  more  fully  later  on,  —  whether 
delivered  in  the  affirmative  or  in  the  negative, 
involves  both  the  feelings  and  the  judgment  of  a 
person,  of  a  rational  as  distinguished  from  an 
animal  life. 

That  to  raise  the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do  ? 
is  also  to  raise  the  inquiry,  "How  is  my  doing 
going  to  affect  others?"  is  an  inference  so  obvious 
that,  when  stated  in  this  indefinite  form,  it  needs 
no  argument  in  its  defence.  The  moral  being 
cannot  act  without  regard  to  the  consequences  of 
his  actions  in  their  social  bearing.  But  of  all  the 
puzzling  subordinate  problems  which  arise  under 
the  main  question,  those  which  are  shaped  and 
determined  by  the  relations  of  the  individual  to 
his  social  environment  are  the  most  numerous 
and  the  most  puzzling.  Any  partial  answer  to 
their  specific  and  concrete  bewilderment  must, 
for  the  most  part,  be  picked  up  by  the  way  as 
we  wander  over  all  the  domain  of  the  moral  prob- 
lem; but  more  particularly,  must  be  learned  by 
experience  in  the  not  too  tender  school  of  the 

[32] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

practical  life.  For,  as  Aristotle  long  ago  said: 
"The  virtues  are  all  habits  or  trained  faculties." 

And  now  we,  too,  take  up  our  quest  for  more 
concrete  and  particular  and  practically  available 
answers  to  the  inquiry,  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  with 
our  memories  well  laden  with  these  four  impor- 
tant considerations.  We  are  going  to  try  to 
determine  what  sort  of  an  ideal,  in  its  various 
aspects  or  forms  of  manifestation,  has  the  right 
to  impose  on  us  the  obligation  to  follow  it  in  our 
social  relations,  with  due  respect  to  our  own 
personal  life  and  to  the  personal  life  that  is  not 
ours.  Perhaps  this  quest  may  lead  us  to  find 
in  the  one  ideal  Personal  Life  the  ultimate  and 
inexhaustible  source  of  all  that  appears  in  the 
sphere  of  that  which  we  call  morality. 

We  will  begin  with  a  more  detailed  study  of  the 
conception  embodied  in  that  little  word  "ought" 
as  distinguished  from  the  other  little  word  "can." 
Here  surely  is  some  kind  of  a  distinction  between 
ability  to  do  —  so  to  say,  merely  as  ability  —  and 
obligation  to  preference  and  choice  as  between  two 
conceivable  ways  of  doing,  for  both  of  which  we 
may  have,  if  not  equal,  at  least  sufficient,  ability. 

But  what  we  expect  to  get  out  of  this  message, 
"I  ought,"  may  be  taken  in  two  different  yet 
closely  related  ways.  We  may  study  to  some 
good  purpose  the  bare  fact  of  this,  "I  ought," 
its  origin,  its  significance,  and  its  relation  to  the 
growth  of  the  moral  personality.  Or  we  may 
try  to  derive  from  this  form  of  moral  conscious- 

[33] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

ness  a  'system  of  concrete  rules  and  maxims  for 
the  regulation  of  human  conduct  in  general  and 
of  our  own  conduct  in  particular.  In  the  one 
case,  we  take  rather  the  psychological  point  of 
view;  in  the  other,  the  historical  and  anthro- 
pological. In  other  words,  we  may  seek  knowl- 
edge about  the  phenomena  of  "oughtness"  (if 
so  uncouth  but  convenient  a  term  may  be  par- 
doned), the  kind  of  experience  involved  in  the 
nascent  feeling  of  obligation;  or  having  deter- 
mined this,  we  may  go  on  to  explore  the  content 
of  the  ought,  or  what  the  feeling  and  judgment  of 
being  under  obligation  tells  us,  more  precisely 
and  completely,  as  to  the  habits  and  deeds  that 
fall  under  the  designations  of  "right"  and  "wrong" 
conduct. 

We  are  now  to  study  the  message  contained  in 
the  words  "I  ought,"  from  the  first  of  these  two 
points  of  view.  What  is  the  origin  of  this  phe- 
nomenon of  moral  consciousness?  What  is  its 
essential  nature?  And,  what  are  the  successive 
traceable  steps  in  its  normal  development?  The 
entire  investigation  into  which  these  questions 
conduct  us  in  our  quest  for  a  satisfactory  answer, 
is  almost  exclusively  psychological.  To  ethics,  as 
studied  from  this  point  of  view,  psychology  affords 
the  only  trustworthy  introduction.  It  is,  however, 
a  kind  of  psychology  which  does  not  depend 
largely  upon  laboratory  apparatus  or  upon  the 
more  exact  methods  of  the  experimental  science; 
but  chiefly  on  keenness  of  insight,  on  sympathy, 

[34] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

and  on  sound  sense.  The  two  best  available 
sources  of  evidence  are  also  the  most  important 
and  the  most  trustworthy.  Of  these,  the  first  is 
the  normal  child,  of  average  intellectual  faculty 
and  capacity  for  social  feeling,  both  of  the  lower 
and  more  distinctly  animal  type  and  of  the  type 
which  we  designate  as  the  "higher  sentiments"; 
-of  such  a  child,  when  placed  under  the  influ- 
ences of  average  favoring  and  also  hindering 
environment,  and  thus  developing  an  adult  moral 
consciousness  which  is  —  as  all  adult  develop- 
ment necessarily  is  —  a  subtle  but  sure,  an  intri- 
cate but  in  spots  distinctly  traceable,  pattern 
woven  of  threads  partly  received  from  others 
and  partly  introduced  as  from  the  free  artistic, 
or  the  sadly  cramped  and  blundering,  hand  of 
the  secret  Self. 

The  second  class  of  data,  most  available  for 
the  study  of  this  phase  of  the  general  problem, 
is  to  be  found  in  the  way  the  common  people  talk 
about  the  matter.  Certainly,  the  average  man 
is  loath  to  reveal  the  secret  and  deeper  workings  of 
his  own  moral  consciousness,  especially  when  the 
revelation  would  bear  heavily  against  his  most 
patent  interests.  Indeed,  the  number  is  few  of 
those  who  can  give  a  quite  trustworthy,  not  to 
say,  an  absolutely  accurate,  account  of  these 
workings.  Fortunately,  however,  this  is  not  nec- 
essary for  the  evidence  we  are  now  seeking. 
This  evidence  is  amply  illustrated  by  the  variety 
of  terms  in  which  the  general  nature  of  moral 

[35] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

obligation  is  expressed,  whether  it  be  in  particular 
a  case  of  I  ought,  or  of  you  ought,  or  of  the-other- 
fellow  ought.  And  men  are  much  more  free  to 
express  their  true  convictions,  in  the  last  two 
than  in  the  first  one  of  these  three  cases. 

One  very  illumining  conclusion,  a  light  on  the 
whole  nature  of  man's  moral  life  and  of  his  social 
relations,  institutions,  and  development,  is  easily 
reached  when  we  listen  to  the  testimony  borne  to 
our  ears  by  the  way  men  talk  about  moral  obliga- 
tion, or  the  developed  form  of  the  message  of  "  the 
ought."  The  conclusion  amply  justified  is  this: 
The  message  of  a  moral  obligation,  the  message 
of  the  ought,  comes  out  of  the  whole  man,  and 
is  addressed  to  the  whole  man.  It  is  not  of 
feeling  alone,  the  intellect  being  silent  and  the 
voluntary  powers  dormant;  nor  is  it  a  cool  and 
unfeeling  decision  of  judgment,  which  most 
usually  and  most  fitly  answers  to  the  appeal  or 
mandate  of  the  moral  consciousness.  It  is  from 
my  whole  Self  that  the  message,  I  ought,  arises; 
it  is  to  my  whole  Self  that  the  message  speaks. 

Neglect  of  this  psychological  truth  of  the  indi- 
visible unity  of  the  moral  personality  has  given 
rise  to  many  mistakes  in  the  attempt  to  solve 
concrete  questions  of  duty,  to  divergent  systems 
of  ethics,  and  to  wrangling  schools  of  moralists. 
They  are  all  rebuked  by  the  way  the  common 
people  talk  about  matters  of  moral  concernment. 
About  the  very  same  deed,  as  viewed  in  the  light 
of  the  message,  I  ought,  they  say,  "I  feel  that 

[36] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

I  ought,"  or  "I  think  that  I  ought,"  or  "I  know 
that  I  ought,"  or  "I  really  must."  The  case 
customarily  is  as  we  have  stated  it  in  a  more  ex- 
tended and  technical  treatment  of  the  same  phase 
of  human  experience  ("  Philosophy  of  Conduct," 
p.  71  f.):  "When  adult  men  say,  'I  ought/  or 
other  words  equivalent  to  these,  they  are  cus- 
tomarily expressing  a  complex  attitude  of  mind 
toward  a  particular  piece  of  conduct.  Like  every 
other  attitude  of  mind,  that  which  is  thus  ex- 
pressed, involves  feeling,  thought,  and  will. 
And,  indeed,  one  may  emphasize  either  of  these 
three  aspects  of  the  total  situation  by  modifying 
one's  expression.  Thus  one  may  emphasize  the 
emotional  factor  by  declaring:  '/  feel  (more  or 
less  intensely  and  unswervingly)  that  I  ought,' 
or  may  lay  stress  upon  the  intellectual  factor,  the 
presence  of  judgment,  by  saying:  '/  think  (more 
or  less  clearly,  and  with  consciousness  of  the 
reasons  or  grounds)  that  I  ought';  or,  even, 
'/  must  indeed,  and  /  shall  because  I  ought' — in 
this  way  bringing  into  evidence  the  volitional 
impulse  or  rational  mandate  given  to  the  will. 
Separating  in  thought,  what  cannot  be  found 
wholly  apart  in  the  actual  life  of  the  Self,  the 
conclusion  is  justified  that  this  feeling  of  the 
ought  is  not  to  be  identified  with  any  other  con- 
tent of  human  consciousness." 

It  has  been  said  that  the  normal  child,  growing 
up  under  the  ordinary  every-day  influences,  offers 
us  our  best  subject  for  the  study  of  the  origin, 

[37] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

nature,  and  course  in  development,  of  this  phase 
of  moral  consciousness.  The  material,  then,  is  at 
everybody's  hand.  Even  in  this  way,  the  study  is 
difficult  enough.  But  so  it  is  with  all  attempts  to 
get  "under  the  jacket"  of  the  human  infant,  and 
thus  attain  anything  which  will  take  the  place  of 
adult  intuition,  or  a  face-to-face  acquaintance 
with  the  interior  of  its  mental  life.  Only  by  our 
own  adult  self-consciousness  do  we  gain  any 
approaches  to  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  our  own 
here-and-now  mental  experiences;  a  face-to-face 
knowledge  of  these  mental  experiences  in  others 
is  impossible.  We,  indeed,  make  out  pretty  well 
in  our  attempts  at  helpful  guesses  and  working 
theories  as  to  what  is  going  on  in  the  minds  of 
grown  men  and  women;  yet  in  all  these  cases  we 
are  dependent  upon  the  interpretation  of  signs 
—  especially  the  vocal  signs  of  articulate  lan- 
guage —  into  terms  of  our  own  self -consciousness. 
But  in  the  infant's  case,  the  signs  are  relatively 
few  and  uncertain;  and  we  have  forgotten  long 
ago  almost  if  not  quite  all  of  our  earliest  and 
most  formative  similar  experiences. 

There  are,  however,  ways  of  partially  overcom- 
ing these  difficulties,  so  as  to  make  out  a  plausible, 
though  sketchy  and  unfinished  picture  of  how 
the  message,  I  ought,  dawns  in  the  mind  of  the 
human  infant;  and  how  it  rises  toward  noon-tide 
clearness  or  to  immergence  in  a  thick  envelop- 
ment of  dust  and  smoke,  through  adolescence  into 
adult  life. 

[38] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

It  is  probably  in  the  form  of  an  altogether 
obscure  feeling  of  repulsion  toward  the  mental 
picture  or  initiating  tendency  to  some  concrete 
deed,  that  the  earliest  traces  of  the  ethical  mes- 
sage are  brought  to  the  consciousness  of  the 
infant  child  of  man.  The  message  is  a  negation 
of  some  natural  impulse,  a  forbidding  by  way 
of  anticipation  of  disagreeable  consequences,  of 
some  particular  deed.  Inwardly  considered,  it 
is  not,  perhaps,  distinguishable  from  the  feeling 
of  repulsion  that  results  from  the  infant's  success- 
ful attempt  to  reach  the  flame  of  the  candle 
which  so  fixates  his  eyes  and  draws  to  it  so  irre- 
sistibly his  hand.  Indeed,  this  stock  example 
of  the  way  that  nature  disciplines  her  babies  in 
their  nervous-muscular  reactions,  although  ordi- 
narily deemed  neutral  so  far  as  its  moral  char- 
acter may  be  called  in  question,  might,  under 
certain  conditions,  serve  equally  well  for  the 
example  of  the  kind  of  learning,  the  sources  of 
which  our  question  binds  us  to  seek.  Grown 
somewhat  older,  the  adventurous  boy  finds  that 
"fooling"  with  the  ears  or  tail  of  his  puppy  is 
followed  by  results  which  quite  certainly  "ought" 
to  be  escaped.  In  this  way,  mere  things  teach 
the  child  how  to  avoid  the  painful  consequences 
of  such  injudicious  uses  of  his  hands,  ambitious  of 
exercising  themselves  to  the  production  of  impres- 
sive and  considerable  effects.  Thus  far,  the 
"better-not"  is  scarcely,  if  at  all,  distinguishable 
from  the  "ought-not,"  so  far  as  the  internal 

[39] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

character  of  the  two  mental  attitudes  is  concerned. 
Experience  of  evil  consequences  shapes  the  be- 
havior of  the  growing  boy.  But  the  behavior  is 
not,  as  yet,  conduct;  the  tendency  to  "skip"  this 
temptation  to  act,  the  next  time  it  occurs,  more 
nearly  resembles  a  result  of  mere  animal  caution 
than  the  virtue  of  prudence  or  wisdom. 

What  is  needed  to  convert  such  a  reaction  into 
the  first  semblance  of  a  truly  moral  act,  a  doing 
which  verges  upon,  if  it  does  not  enter  clear  over 
into  the  domain  of  conduct,  is  this :  the  prohibition 
must  have  a  social  origin;  it  must  come  by  way 
of  injunction,  punishment,  or  other  form  of  re- 
sistance from  some  person.  So  when  the  eager 
infant,  as  yet  all  too  ignorant  of  any  distinction 
between  "thine"  and  "mine,"  directs  his  first 
act  of  grabbing  or  "grafting"  things  which  do 
not  belong  to  him,  toward  his  older  brother's 
apple  or  toy,  he  gets  his  indispensable  experience 
in  the  way  of  suffering  for  the  breach  of  one  of  the 
most  sacred  and  fundamental  of  human  rights. 
For  the  impulse  to  possession  arises  in  this  same 
tendency  to  be  the  first  to  lay  your  hand  on 
what  stirs  up  desire;  and  the  basis  of  social 
justice  is  laid,  on  one  side  of  its  towering  edifice, 
in  the  lawful  determination  to  assert  your 
right  to  what  you  have  thus  laid  your  hand 
upon. 

Even  in  the  case  of  the  lighted  candle  or  the 
snappish  dog,  the  more  distinctively  moral  ele- 
ment may  be  introduced  by  a  command  from 

[40] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

mama,  or  from  the  older  sister  left  in  charge,  or  the 
hired  nurse.  "Don't  do  that";  or  "You  mustn't 
do  so,"  when  followed  up  by  some  kind  of  penalty 
by  the  author  of  the  command,  does  a  service  for 
the  awakening  of  moral  consciousness  which  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  the  burn  of  the  candle  or  the 
bite  of  the  cur  to  perform.  As  the  manifesta- 
tions of  the  infant's  determination  "to  go  it 
alone"  become  more  numerous  and  more  shrewd 
and  complicated  in  form,  the  methods  of  the 
social  rebuff  and  of  the  social  retribution  increase 
in  somewhat  the  same  measure.  At  least,  as 
respects  the  cultivation  of  some  of  the  more 
fundamental  and  patent  of  the  virtues,  the  social 
environment  does  its  best  to  keep  abreast,  or  at 
the  worst,  not  so  very  far  behind,  the  increasing 
greediness  and  craft  of  its  more  disobedient  indi- 
vidual members. 

In  the  case  of  the  few  children  who  are  reared 
in  the  midst  of  a  refined  and  judiciously  directing 
and  bracing  moral  environment,  the  earliest  means 
for  repulsion  of  natural  impulses  and  for  the  dis- 
tribution of  penalties  for  their  wrong  indulgence, 
are,  of  course,  of  a  markedly  different  kind.  But 
we  are  convinced  that  the  beginnings  of  the  mes- 
sage in  the  ought,  the  dawn  of  that  feeling  of 
aversion,  the  other  side  of  which  is  a  feeling  of 
preference  for  the  opposite,  is  in  most,  if  not  in 
absolutely  all  cases,  essentially  the  same.  For 
the  oath,  the  slap,  the  cuffing,  or  the  starving, 
may  be  substituted  the  grieved  look  of  the  mother, 

[41] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  denial  of  her  caress,  or  of  the  anticipated  half- 
hour  of  play  with  papa.  If  the  disobedience  or 
other  form  of  wrong-doing  is  a  second  or  third 
offence,  some  severer  though  equally  kindly  form 
of  discipline  may  be  contrived.  But  the  "law" 
comes  in  the  simpler  forms  of  social  environment 
—  the  family,  the  neighborhood,  the  school  —  as 
it  comes  in  the  Mosaic  code  and  in  all  other 
codes,  chiefly  and  in  its  most  primitive  form,  as 
a  "thou-shalt-not." 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to  confine  our 
account  to  this  negative  aspect  of  the  dawning 
of  moral  consciousness  in  the  young  of  the  human 
species.  "Thou-shalt"  follows  as  a  matter  of 
course  upon  the  heels  of  every  "Thou-shalt-not." 
There  is  a  "better-this"  for  almost  every  "better- 
not-that."  This  side,  or  form,  of  moral  con- 
sciousness also  arises  as  a  vague  and  ill-defined 
feeling  under  the  incitement  of  social  conditions 
which  are  not  as  yet  in  any  respect  apprehended; 
and  which  are,  perhaps,  never  in  most  instances 
clearly  understood.  Even  under  the  most  un- 
favorable or  positively  corrupting  circumstances, 
the  human  infant  soon  discovers  that,  if  some 
ways  of  behaving  himself  are  followed  by  repre- 
hension and  painful  consequences,  some  other 
ways  of  behaving  are  followed  by  experiences 
which  it  is  pleasant  for  him  to  have.  If  he 
obviously  disobeys,  he  suffers  for  it;  if  he  secretly 
disobeys,  he  is  apt  to  be  found  out,  and  then  he 
is  apt  to  suffer  as  well.  But  if  he  obviously  obeys, 

[42] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

he  at  least  has  a  better  chance  of  escaping  some 
suffering  or  enforced  self-denial;  and  in  many 
instances,  he  secures  something  which  he  can 
regard  as  a  sort  of  reward.  In  all  but  the  lowest 
and  most  unsettled  and  mob-like,  half-chaotic 
forms  of  the  social  environment,  amidst  the  influ- 
ences of  which  the  young  of  human  kind  get  their 
earliest  moral  lessons,  something  like  a  regular 
and  predictable  sequence  of  punishment  and  re- 
wards has  a  sort  of  enforced  existence.  It  is  not 
a  sequence  in  which  anything  like  perfect  justice 
prevails;  nothing  amounting  to  the  certainties  of 
the  astronomers'  prediction  as  to  the  motion  of 
the  planets  (the  heavenly  bodies  once  called  "the 
wandering")  is  quite  attainable  for  the  youthful 
observer.  But  if  "he  watches  out,"  he  discovers 
pretty  well  how  to  adjust  himself  to  the  rising  or 
lowering  temperature.  Thus  he  falls  into  habits 
which  more  or  less  happily  correspond  to  what 
has  been  called  "nature's  first  law"  for  human 
individuals,  the  law  of  self-preservation.  So  far 
forth  he  is  esteemed  by  his  social  environment 
a  "pretty  good  fellow";  though  "a  bit  odd,"  if 
he  tries  to  make  and  to  justify  any  aberrations 
from  its  customs. 

But  here  again,  if  the  individual  has  the  good 
fortune  to  be  brought  up  among  the  good  few  who 
train  their  young  to  toughness  and  generosity  in 
bearing,  as  well  as  to  intelligent  and  wisely  altru- 
istic doing,  the  expertness  and  satisfactions  which 
belong  of  right  to  the  predominance  of  the  positive 

[43] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

side  of  moral  feeling  become  increasingly  con- 
spicuous. 

In  this  process  of  arousing,  fixing,  and  develop- 
ing the  consciousness  of  the  ought,  there  is  another 
closely  allied  form  of  feeling,  the  worth  and  the 
services  of  which  can  by  no  means  safely  be  neg- 
lected. Indeed,  it  is  in  the  many  forms  of  mani- 
festing this  feeling  that  the  arousement  and  the 
culture  of  personal  responsibility  largely  consist. 
This  is  the  feeling  of  (moral)  approbation  or  its 
opposite,  the  feeling  of  disapprobation.  Here, 
too,  we  have  to  note  how  the  more  distinctively 
moral,  the  rational  sentiment  of  which  only  per- 
sons are  capable,  emerges  from  dimly  conscious 
experiences  that  seem  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  the  mental  reactions  of  the  lower  animals. 
The  child  who  resentfully  "chucks"  the  stone  on 
which  he  has  stubbed  his  toe,  or  the  man  who 
condemns  it  to  eternal  perdition,  manifests  a  kind 
of  disapproval  which  is  no  more  moral  than  that 
of  the  cobra  who  strikes  the  leg  that  has  carelessly 
brushed  against  it.  All  sensitive  beings,  animals 
of  the  lower  species,  as  well  as  that  human  animal 
we  call  rational,  disapprove  of  what  causes  them 
pain  or  seems  in  any  way  to  threaten  their  bodies 
or  their  possessions.  Here,  again,  as  always  and 
everywhere,  we  find  the  foundations  of  the  moral 
and  the  spiritual  laid  in  the  animal  and  the  natural. 
And  what  other  plan  could  the  moral  philosopher, 
whose  head  is  most  in  the  clouds  of  illusion  and 
his  lungs  accustomed  to  the  most  rarefied  air  of 

[44] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

a  sentiment-like  ether,  possibly  devise,  or  when 
devised,  possibly  make  work,  in  a  world  consti- 
tuted as  is  that  in  which  man  is  involved?  But 
it  is  the  distinctive  feature  of  the  human  being 
that  this  feeling  of  approbation,  and  its  oppo- 
site, the  feeling  of  disapprobation,  can  be  aroused 
in  a  relatively  disinterested  or  wholly  unselfish 
way,  and  applied  to  the  good  and  the  bad  of  con- 
duct in  social  —  that  is,  in  personal  —  relations. 

It  is  probable  that  the  most  impulsive  and 
thoughtless  ways  of  checking  or  furthering  the 
conduct  of  the  young,  even  in  the  lowest  forms 
of  society  as  judged  from  the  moral  point  of  view, 
are  habitually  something  more  than  mere  animal 
resentment.  They  are  the  genuine  and  not  wholly 
feigned  issue  of  the  moral  feelings  of  approbation 
and  disapprobation.  It  is,  in  general,  necessary 
for  the  most  brutal  father  and  the  most  whimsical 
mother  to  feel  the  right  to  command  in  order  to 
justify  the  right  to  punish  disobedience  or  to 
reward  obedience  in  the  child.  And  the  oath, 
the  blow,  the  starving,  with  which  the  child  is 
punished,  or  the  cake,  the  kiss,  the  kind  word  with 
which  the  child  is  rewarded,  do  really  in  some 
crude  way  express  a  truly  moral  feeling. 

But  the  most  important  thing  to  notice  in 
explanation  of  the  nature  and  growth  of  the  moral 
life  is  that  the  child  appropriates  to  himself 
these  same  feelings  of  approbation  and  disappro- 
bation. To  a  certain  extent,  and  under  certain 
often  recurring  circumstances,  he  begins  —  as 

[45] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  phrases  are  —  either  "to  kick  himself"  for 
having  done  the  wrong  thing,  or  "to  pat  himself 
on  the  shoulder"  for  the  thing  that  turned  out  to 
have  been  right.  Nor  can  we  say  that  this  self- 
approbation  always  remains  merely  the  feeling  of  a 
sensitive  animal,  a  wholly  non-moral  affair.  It 
takes  on  the  semblance  of  a  moral  character  just 
as  soon  as  the  approbation  is  self-adjudged  for  a 
deed  that  conforms  to  the  social  estimate  of  the 
right  and  the  wrong  of  conduct. 

Still  more  complicated  and  dependent  on  a 
marked  advance  in  intellectual  development  is 
that  peculiar  feeling  of  merit,  or  its  opposite  feel- 
ing of  ill-desert,  which  the  so-called  "moral  agent" 
now  assigns  to  himself  or  to  others.  This  is  a 
truly  moral  respect  for  what  is  of  supreme  worth 
in  the  personal  life.  We  might  almost  think 
ourselves  justified  in  holding  that  it  is  the  only 
legitimate  and  reasonable  form  of  self-respect 
(moral  respect  for  the  true  Self).  But  in  order 
to  hold  this  its  lawful  place  among  the  various 
forms  of  self-appreciation,  to  certain  of  which 
the  average  man  is  too  much  addicted,  the  feel- 
ing of  moral  merit  must  be  severely  distinguished 
from  Pharisaical  pride  and  from  vain-glorious 
self-conceit.  Neither  is  it  to  be  identified  with 
the  theological  consciousness  of  being  sure  of 
having  "accepted  the  terms  of  salvation"  as  de- 
termined by  one's  creed,  or  with  pious  satisfaction 
at  having  gained  title  to  the  ranks  of  the  "per- 
fected." 

[46] 


WHENCE   THE    MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

In  some  such  way  the  feelings  which  constitute 
and  accompany  the  message,  I  ought,  may  be 
held  to  originate  and  develop  as  the  primitive 
and  most  fundamental  experiences  of  the  personal 
life  in  respect  of  its  attitude  toward  the  right  and 
wrong  of  conduct.  But  moral  consciousness  is 
more  than  unreasoning  feeling;  it  must  be  partly, 
and  perhaps  in  its  highest  cultivation,  chiefly,  a 
matter  of  ideas,  of  judgments,  and  of  principles, 
all  woven  together  into  some  fairly  consistent 
pattern  or  type  of  moral  character.  The  attach- 
ment of  moral  feeling  to  the  intellectual  and 
reasoning  powers  of  human  nature  is  plainly,  in 
the  first  stages  of  moral  development,  almost 
exclusively  due  to  the  compulsion  of  the  social 
environment.  In  what  Plato  called  "the  puppy- 
dog  stage,"  the  human  being,  whether  still  infant 
or  grown  toward  physical  manhood  but  still 
infantile  in  mind,  judges  that  to  be  really  right  or 
really  wrong,  which  the  social  atmosphere  has 
made  either  genial  and  bracing  or  chilly  and 
repulsive  to  his  feelings.  On  the  side  of  feeling  he 
is  most  sensitive;  on  the  side  of  judgment  he  is 
blind.  If  he  gives  to  himself  or  to  others  any 
shadow  of  a  reason  why  he  conducts  himself  in 
this  way  rather  than  in  some  other,  it  can  be  only 
this:  So  the  others  do;  or  so  I  have  been  told  to 
do;  or  so  it  pays  best  to  do.  As  to  any  appeal 
to  a  moral  law  or  a  moral  reason,  he  is  almost  if 
not  quite  incapable  as  well  as  careless,  in  view  of 
such  a  task. 

[47] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

But  the  time  comes  to  every  adult  who  under- 
goes a  normal  development  of  the  moral  kind, 
when  he  is  tempted  —  or  oftener  forced  by  some 
internal  motive  or  by  powerful  pressure  from 
without  —  to  ask  of  himself  or  of  others,  the 
startling  question  Why?  about  some  deed  or 
course  of  conduct  that,  even  under  his  limited 
category,  is  of  moral  significance.  Indeed,  the  in- 
telligent child  who  lives  amidst  complicated  social 
conditions,  with  a  number  of  circles  of  folk  having 
differing  ideas  and  practices  that  are  of  moral 
import,  asks  this  question  early.  But  the  ques- 
tion Why?  must  have  some  kind  of  a  "because" 
for  its  answer.  And  this  "because"  must  also  be 
received  from  others  in  accordance  with  one's 
peculiar  social  environment;  or  it  must  be  thought 
out  by  the  individual  for  himself.  As  thought  is 
more  frequently  and  persistently  applied  to  the 
problem,  the  divergency  in  the  answers  arrived 
at  becomes  the  greater  and  the  more  conspicu- 
ous. Here,  too,  however,  the  majority,  as  they 
have  expressed  themselves  in  the  various  modes 
of  organized  moral  judgment  and  established 
institutions,  hold  the  check-rein  taut,  and  apply 
the  whip  smartly,  in  discipline  of  any  coltish  or 
more  sinister  desire  to  run  away  or  to  kick  over 
the  traces. 

1  There  are  two  puzzling  problems  connected 
with  the  manner  in  fact,  in  which  moral  judg- 
ments and  moral  principles  come  to  be  firmly 
attached  to  the  moral  feelings,  that  are  of  the 

[48] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

greatest  importance  both  for  the  practice  of  the 
individual  and  for  the  theory  of  obligation,  duty, 
and  the  moral  law.  Both  of  these  problems  have 
to  do  with  a  species  of  conflict.  On  the  one  hand 
there  is  the  painful  conflict  —  more  frequent 
and  more  severe  in  proportion  to  the  moral  sen- 
sitiveness and  the  good- will  of  the  individual  — 
between  what  one  has  been  trained  to  feel  to  be 
right  and  what  one  has  come,  on  grounds  of  seem- 
ingly sufficient  reasons,  to  judge  to  be  right. 
Shall  feeling  be  satisfied  and  good  judgment  be 
condemned?  Or,  shall  judgment  be  vindicated  by 
the  deed  which  it  commends,  but  the  tender  and 
most  sacred  emotions,  that  are  so  large  a  part 
of  our  best  Self,  be  aggrieved  and  discouraged  or 
wholly  suppressed? 

The  other  conflict,  which  would  seem  to  be 
made  forever  sure  to  arise,  since  its  sources  are 
inextricably  rooted  in  the  constitution  of  society, 
is  that  between  the  alleged  clarity  and  unchange- 
ableness  of  moral  principles,  and  the  obvious  and 
indisputable  variety  and  ceaseless  change  in  the 
rules  and  customs  which  the  different  peoples, 
classes  of  society,  and  differing  ages  of  human 
history,  have  established  in  fact,  to  determine 
the  right  and  the  wrong  of  conduct.  Is  morality 
all  a  matter  of  evolution;  or  even,  as  so  many 
now-a-days  would  have  us  think,  a  matter  solely 
of  economic  or  purely  mechanical  evolution? 
Or,  did  the  greatest  of  ancient  philosophers 
(Aristotle)  tell  the  deeper  truth  when  he  declared: 

[49] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

"There  is  no  human  function  so  constant  as  the 
activities  in  accordance  with  virtue;  they  seein 
to  be  more  permanent  than  the  sciences  them- 
selves"? And  did  the  greatest  of  the  Greek 
tragedians  (Sophocles)  speak  soberly,  when  he 
sang  of  these  principles: 

"They  ne'er  shall  sink  to  slumber  hi  oblivion; 
A  power  of  God  is  there,  untouched  by  Time. " 

These  doubts  which  try  the  soul,  and  put  it 
on  the  rack  of  conflicting  tendencies  and  emotions, 
under  a  sky  of  cloudy  ideas  and  confused  thoughts, 
are  sure  to  be  connected  with  efforts  of  the  honest 
inquirer  into  the  one  question  which  puts  them 
up  to  him  day  after  day,  —  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  With  us,  however,  they  must  wait 
awhile,  and  until  we  have  to  a  somewhat  greater 
extent  disentangled  certain  other  factors  which 
enter  into  the  moral  problem.  There  are,  how- 
ever, one  or  two  helpful  considerations  that 
spring  out  of  the  very  nature  of  "  the  ought "  in 
if. i  most  primitive  form  of  intellectually  unjusti- 
fied and  unanalyzed  feeling.^ 

It  would  be  a  grave  error,  and  indeed  an  error 
fatal  to  our  understanding  of  the  entire  subject, 
to  suppose  that  even  the  earliest  and  vaguest 
moral  feelings  are  stamped  upon  the  soul  of  the 
human  child  wholly  from  without.  On  the  con- 
trary, this  is,  strictly  taken,  never  quite  true. 
They  are  always  aroused  from  within;  they  are 
the  normal  human  emotions  reacting  to  the  stim- 

[50] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I  OUGHT"? 

ulus  afforded  by  the  social  environment.  And 
however  wrong  or  mistaken  the  judgments,  how- 
ever criminal  or  wicked  the  deeds  and  the  courses 
of  conduct,  in  their  evolution  under  social  influ- 
ences, come  to  be,  the  natural  moral  feelings  are 
in  general  true  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and  to  the 
character  which,  so  far  as  we  can  follow  outward 
or  backward  the  history  of  the  race,  men  have 
been  accustomed  to  call  good. 

In  justification  of  the  truth  just  asserted  there 
are  two  things  noticeable  about  this  first  system 
of  reactions  by  way  of  feeling,  and  its  earliest 
development.  The  soul  itself  responds  pretty 
generally,  if  not  infallibly,  on  the  side  of  virtue; 
and  it  responds  with  a  certain  marked  preference 
for  those  virtues  which,  although  they  are  the 
most  showy,  are  also  the  most  fundamentally 
important  in  the  laying  of  the  foundations  of  a 
virtuous  and  serviceable  character.  The  boy 
who  is  trained  at  picking  and  stealing  must  display 
the  virtues  of  prudence,  obedience,  courage,  and 
a  certain  loyalty  to  his  "pals"  or  to  the  "gang" 
to  which  he  belongs.  And  so  must  the  girl  reveal 
certain  virtues,  who  goes  to  Yoshiwara  to  procure 
support  for  a  sick  or  needy  parent,  or  who  doubles 
her  awful  trade  upon  the  streets  of  London  (as 
one  of  my  missionary  friends  told  me  he  had  not 
infrequently  known  such  a  girl  to  do)  in  order 
to  purchase  food  and  medicine  for  one  of  her 
disabled  comrades.  He  is  a  desperately  hardened 
person  who  can  approve  of  any  kind  of  wrong- 

[51] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

doing  in  himself  without  introducing  it  to  him- 
self clothed  in  the  meretricious  garments  of  some 
pretended  virtue.  Only  devils  can  honestly  say: 
"Evil!  be  thou  my  good."  So  great  is  the  pref- 
erence of  unsophisticated  moral  feeling  for  what 
presents  itself  to  the  soul  in  the  guise  of  a  virtue. 
But  prudence,  obedience,  courage,  and  loyalty, 
are  not  fictions  of  virtue;  the  rather,  are  they 
the  most  fundamental  of  all  the  virtues.  And 
the  sensitive  and  highly  cultured  moral  conscious- 
ness is  true  to  its  heaven-derived  constitution, 
when  it  recognizes,  approbates,  and  rewards  them 
as  such.  All  wrong-doing  is  in  some  of  its  several 
aspects  essentially  mean.  But  what  a  salve  to 
its  meanness  it  gains  when  it  can  be  smoothed  over 
with  some  semblance  of  a  virtue,  always  and 
everywhere  spontaneously  recognized  by  the  hu- 
man soul  as  such,  and  spontaneously  affording  the 
feeling  proper  to  its  nature  as  thus  recognized! 

"So  in  man's  self  arise 
August  anticipations,  symbols,  types 
Of  a  dim  splendor." 

And  now,  taking  this  feeling  of  "the  ought" 
out  into  the  larger  field,  where  we  may  compare 
it  with  all  the  other  emotions  which  attach  them- 
selves to  the  ideas  of  value,  we  find  it  stands  well 
the  test.  It  has  the  characteristics  which  belong 
to  them  all.  It  has  uniqueness.  It  is  not  to  be 
confused  with  the  feeling  of  fear  or  the  desire  of 
pleasure,  or  the  tipping  in  a  given  direction  of 

[52] 


WHENCE   THE   MESSAGE:     "I   OUGHT"? 

natural  inclination.  It  is,  indeed,  dependent  for 
the  occasion  of  its  arousement,  for  its  direction, 
and  for  its  attachment,  on  the  social  environ- 
ment; but  the  essential  nature  of  the  reaction 
evoked  is  unique. 

We  note  also  its  universality.  All  normal 
human  beings  develop  this  feeling.  In  its 
intensity,  in  the  activity  of  discrimination  con- 
nected with  it,  and  in  the  character  of  the 
judgments  with  which  it  consorts  and  which  it 
supports  or  confutes,  there  is  indefinite  variability 
among  the  individual  members  of  any  community. 
But  the  message  of  "the  ought"  is  the  most 
important  factor  in  securing  a  certain  moral 
solidarity  to  the  race.  In  it  alone  can  we  lay 
the  foundations  of  a  hope  that  the  moral  ideal 
will  finally  triumph;  that,  at  any  rate,  there 
will  be  an  increasing  approchement  of  "that- 
which-in-f act-is "  to  "that-which-in-truth-ought- 
to-be,"  in  the  moral  relations  and  the  conduct 
toward  one  another,  of  the  different  portions  of 
the  race. 

To  the  individual  who  asks,  What  ought  I  to  do? 
so  far  as  any  definite  advice  can  be  given  at  this 
stage  of  the  inquiry,  a  curious  answer  must  suf- 
fice. For  the  question  takes  this  shape:  What 
ought  I  to  do  with  the  feeling  of  "the  ought"? 
In  reply  two  answers  may  be  taken,  "off-hand," 
as  the  phrase  is.  Treat  it  gently  and  with  great 
respect.  In  it  consists  your  chief  title  to  a  rea- 
sonable self-respect.  To  become  deaf  to  the 

[53] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

message,  I  ought,  would  be  to  lose  the  power  of 
hearing  the  divine  voice.  To  blunt  it  is  to  harden 
the  finest  sensitiveness  of  the  human  soul.  But 
with  all  that,  one  cannot  take  its  bidding  without 
question  as  though  it  were  an  emotion  infallible 
to  direct  and  always  reasonable  to  justify  its  com- 
mands. Like  all  other  emotions  it  needs  to  be 
often  questioned  as  to  its  reasons/  and  somewhat 
regularly  held  accountable  for  its  consequences. 
For  morality  is  not  all  of  feeling,  however  sacred 
the  counsels  of  any  particular  feeling  may  seem 
to  be.  The  voice  of  judgment  must  be  heard 
as  well. 


[54] 


CHAPTER  III 

ON   THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING 
GOOD" 

F  all  the  conceptions  developed  by  cen- 
turies of  reflective  thinking,  there  are 
few,  or  none,  at  once  so  ostensibly  prac- 
tical and  yet  theoretically  so  difficult  to  analyze, 
so  seemingly  simple  and  yet  in  reality  so  complex, 
as  that  which  is  covered  by  the  popular  use  of  the 
word  "Good."  What  is  this  thing  good  for? 
What  is  the  good  of  doing  this,  or  of  learning 
that?  Is  this  man  or  that  woman  good  for  any- 
thing? For  how  much  is  he  (his  credit)  good? 
Is  he  a  good  (efficient)  teacher;  or  a  good  (inter- 
esting and  persuasive)  preacher;  or  a  (aesthetically) 
good  painter;  or  a  (morally)  good  man?  Is  the 
medicine  good  for  this  trouble?  Does  the  orange 
taste  good?  Is  this  a  good  thing  to  do,  —  by 
the  way  of  pity,  sympathy,  or  the  bestowal  of 
alms?  Such  are  some  of  the  questions,  inquiring 
about  what  is  good  from  innumerable  points  of  view 
and  with  innumerable  selfish  or  benevolent  ends 
in  mind,  which  pester  the  judgment  and  burden 
the  conscience,  every  hour  of  every  day  from  one 
year's  end  to  another's.  But  most  perplexing 

[55] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

of  all  is  the  situation  of  the  mind  of  the  inquirer 
after  that  common  element  in  all,  which  induces 
and  authorizes  them  to  make  use  of  the  same 
word  Good.  What  is  the  general  nature  of  that 
which  men  agree  to  call  by  this  ambiguous  and 
ubiquitous  term? 

The  answer  to  this  last  question  can  scarcely 
be  found  in  the  nature  of  the  material  thing,  con- 
sidered apart  from  the  person  who  pronounces 
or  reluctantly  admits  that  it  really  is  good.  The 
reality  of  any  material  good  can  scarcely  be  what 
the  philosophers  are  accustomed  to  call  wholly 
"objective."  For  what  is  pleasant  to  the  taste, 
and  invigorating  to  the  health  of  one,  is  nauseating 
to  the  taste  and  depressing  to  the  health  of  another. 
Nor  can  it  be  inherent  in  a  quite  compulsory  way 
inTthe  character  of  the  work  of  pictorial  or  musical 
art.  As  my  friend  put  the  case,  when  I  spoke 
sympathetically  to  him,  his  face  all  aglow  with 
satisfaction  at  having  rendered  splendidly  the 
second-violin  part  in  Beethoven's  matchless  Quar- 
tet in  B  flat  (Op.  130):  "And  even  some  musi- 
cians I  have  heard  say,  they  do  not  like  those  last 
works  of  Beethoven;  but  when  I  hear  them  say 
that,  I  feel  very  superior." 

Neither  can  one  say  that  the  pleasure  —  at 
least  that  of  a  sensuous  sort  and  most  immedi- 
ately following — is  always  the  test  of  the  "good- 
ness" of  what  causes  any  particular  experience; 
while  the  experience  of  its  opposite,  of  some  form 
of  pain  or  discomfort,  is  what  invariably  leads 

[56] 


.THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

us  to  call  the  other  thing  bad.  For  there  are 
injurious  foods  that  are  pleasant  to  the  taste. 
Poisons  cannot  be  infallibly  detected  by  the  pain- 
ful effects  which  follow  their  taking,  whether  by 
mistake  or  designedly;  and  for  the  man  who 
wishes  to  commit  suicide,  they  are  eminently 
good.  In  general,  medicines  and  surgical  reme- 
dies are  bitter  to  experience,  even  if  good  for  the 
rescue  of  body  or  mind.  And  the  good  of  anaes- 
thetics, physical  or  spiritual,  is  not  wholly  to  be 
discovered  in  their  power  to  mitigate  pain,  but 
also  in  the  way  they  make  it  possible  for  the 
severest  of  remedial  agencies  to  be  applied. 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  then,  for  the 
man  who  asks,  with  a  wish  to  be  rational,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  to  have  some  doctrine  of  the  nature 
of  the  good,  especially  as  this  doctrine  is  of  use 
in  solving  practical  questions  concerning  them- 
selves with  the  good  and  bad  of  conduct.  The 
moral  significance  of  this  conception,  one  writer 
on  ethics  (Wundt)  emphasizes  in  these  terms: 
"The  whole  ethical  vocabulary  falls  into  two 
great  divisions:  words  that  denote  ethical  char- 
acteristics like  'good'  and  'bad/  and  words  that 
indicate  the  emphasis  put  on  ethical  characteris- 
tics, like  'esteem'  and  'contempt."2  If  this  is 
true,  it  follows  that  our  judgments  and  feelings 
about  the  good  of  conduct,  and  its  opposite,  cover 
pretty  much  the  entire  sphere  of  morals.  And, 
indeed,  the  Greek  moralists  treated  all  those 
subjects  which  we  range  under  the  conceptions  of 

[57] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

duty,  law,  principles,  and  their  exemplification 
by  definite  rules  and  examples,  under  this  one 
title  of  the  "Good." 

There  are  two  considerations  that  help  us  dis- 
entangle this  confusion,  at  least  far  enough  to 
see  through  it  some  prospect  of  a  clear  field  on 
the  other  side  in  which  we  may  hunt  with  un- 
proved hope  of  success  for  an  answer  to  our  main 
inquiry.  The  first  of  these  considerations  is  this. 
The  kinds  of  experience,  and  even  the  individual 
experiences,  to  which  the  words  "good"  and  "bad" 
are  applicable,  must  be  as  great  as  the  variety  of 
the  different  sensitive  reactions  to  which,  in  kinds 
and  in  individuals,  human  nature  is  susceptible. 
This  variety  is  indefinite.  So  then  must  be  the 
variety  of  goods,  for  the  species  and  for  the 
individual.  All  the  different  bodily  organs,  phys- 
ical interests,  appetites,  desires,  ambitions,  as- 
pirations, longings,  that  make  up  the  infinitely 
varied  complex  which  we  call  "human  nature," 
present  their  wide-open  mouths  to  be  filled  from 
the  store-house  of  the  physical  and  social  environ- 
ment. And  what  this  store-house  provides  is 
good  or  bad,  pretty  good  or  very  bad,  according 
to  the  standard  by  which  you  measure  it.  Good 
for  the  health,  bad  for  the  bank  account;  good  for 
the  desire  of  pleasure,  bad  for  clarity  of  intel- 
lect or  peace  of  conscience;  good  for  the  ambi- 
tion to  be  wealthy  or  to  gain  political  preferment, 
bad  for  the  ambition  to  be  scholarly  or  profes- 
sionally useful;  good  for  the  aspirations  and 

[58] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

longings  to  be  famous  or  successful  in  artistic 
achievement,  bad  for  the  spiritual  cultivation 
which  demands  resignation  and  humility;  —  such 
are  a  few  of  the  conflicting  terms  which  apply  to 
the  same  experiences  with  the  same  things,  when 
regarded  from  different  points  of  view.  But  all 
these  experiences  are  common  to  man  as  man; 
all  grow  inevitably  out  of  the  very  complexity, 
not  to  say  the  disharmony,  of  human  nature  as 
set  firmly  in  its  inescapable  natural  and  social 
environment.  And  all  this  variety  is  still  further 
variegated,  so  to  say,  by  the  infinite  variability 
of  individuality,  as  this  principle  is  applied  to 
the  highest  of  the  animal  species. 

But  what  is  the  common  element  by  which  we 
classify  things,  and  experiences  of  things,  so 
greatly  divergent,  under  one  cover  of  the  words: 
"It  is  good"  (or,  "It  is  bad")?  From  the  in- 
ward point  of  view,  we  can  think  of  no  better 
word  to  designate  this  common  element  than  the 
word  satisfaction.  That  which  takes  place  within 
the  soul  is  its  satisfaction, — of  some  kind  or  other 
and  more  or  less  lasting  and  complete.  But 
never  long  lasting,  and  seldom  or  never  quite 
complete.  For  what  Riickert  says  so  beautifully 
of  the  soul's  ideal  of  its  own  better  Self  is  true 
of  every  state  and  stage  of  the  soul's  movement, 
whether  it  be  along  the  path  of  its  moral  progress, 
upward  or  downward. 

"  'Fore  every  soul  an  image  stands,  of  what  it  ought  to  be; 
So  long  as  it's  not  this,  from  unrest  it's  not  free." 

[59] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

When  we  inquire  what  it  is  external  to  the  Self, 
what  it  is  in  the  thing,  or  in  the  mode  of  its  phys- 
ical action,  or  in  the  character  of  its  appeal  to 
our  psychical  or  spiritual  activities,  which  con- 
duces to  the  feeling  of  satisfaction,  we  are  equally 
at  a  loss  to  assign  any  definite  quality,  or  group 
of  qualities,  that  is  sure  of  success  in  all  individ- 
ual instances.  We  seem  doomed  still  to  content 
ourselves  with  very  indefinite  and  unscientific 
expressions.  We  can  only  say  that,  just  as  we 
call  our  experience  of  satisfaction  something  good 
in  us  (a  state  or  condition  of  life  which  is  sub- 
jectively good);  so,  that  which  conduces  to  the 
satisfaction  (the  instrument  or  creator  activity 
of  the  state)  is  some  form  of  the  good  for  us.  The 
satisfaction  and  the  cause  of  the  satisfaction,  — 
one  from  the  point  of  view  of  our  own  condition 
of  feeling  and  the  other  from  the  point  of  view  of 
the  observer,  or  investigator,  of  the  reason  of  the 
condition, —  are  both  worthy  to  be  called  good. 
It  is  plain,  however,  that  the  point  on  which  the 
mind  dwells  with  a  supreme  interest,  from  which- 
ever of  these  two  points  of  view  it  is  regarded,  is 
the  soul's  condition  of  satisfaction. 

In  all  our  many  dealings  with  physical  objects 
and  events,  and  with  social  relations  and  occur- 
rences, the  one  thing  which  every  man  most  surely 
knows  —  if,  indeed,  he  is  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
in  any  way  about  the  whole  matter  —  is  whether 
he  actually  has  the  feeling  of  satisfaction,  whether 
in  fact,  he  realizes  the  good  in  his  own  experience. 

[60] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

In  such  matters,  every  individual  thinks  —  and 
with  a  large  measure  of  reasonableness  in  the 
thought  —  that  he  is  the  best  judge.  Chemistry 
cannot  tell  him  what  combinations  of  atoms  must 
produce  fruits  and  sauces  that  are  "good,"  be- 
cause agreeable  of  a  certainty  to  his  peculiar 
tastes.  If  he  does  not,  in  fact,  like  onions  or 
olives,  he  receives  with  a  smile  the  advice  of  his 
friend  that  he  ought  to  like  them.  He  is  rather 
more  deferential  toward  the  advice  of  his  doctor 
as  to  how  much  and  what,  food  or  exercise,  is 
good  or  bad  for  him.  But  here  the  point  of  view 
is  totally  changed.  Both  doctor  and  patient  are 
considering  the  more  probable  means  for  secur- 
ing the  good  of  improved  health,  though  this  kind 
of  good  may  have  to  be  secured  through  the  forfei- 
ture of  much  pleasure  in  other  kinds  of  good; 
and  this  to  such  an  extent  that  the  individual 
who  does  not  make  the  improvement  of  health 
a  matter  of  good  conduct  may  wish  that  he  had 
died  the  sooner,  rather  than  endure  the  pro- 
longed evils  of  doctoring  himself. 

We  see,  then,  that  this  matter  of  determining 
what  is  really  good  (of  getting  the  good  and  of 
being  in  the  good  state  of  satisfaction),  is,  unless 
we  can  arrive  at  some  other  measure  of  "good- 
ness," an  ever-shifting  complexity,  not  to  say  an 
indistinguishable  muddle.  But  there  have  been 
from  the  beginning  (so  far,  indeed,  as  we  know 
anything  about  beginnings),  two  ways  of  esti- 
mating goods,  of  "sorting  them  out,"  as  the 

[61] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

phrase  is,  and  of  commending  them  to  consumers 
in  general  in  terms  of  their  value  when  ranged 
along  a  scale.  These  "goods"  have,  to  be  sure, 
been  quite  differently  labelled  by  those  who  have 
undertaken  to  fix  a  price  upon  them  for  their 
fellow  men;  and  there  have  been,  not  infrequently, 
certain  "mill-end  sales"  or  "everything  knocked- 
down-to-the-lo west-price  auctions,"  in  human  his- 
tory. Witness  the  extraordinary  changes  in  recent 
times,  of  expert  opinions  as  to  the  foods  that  are 
good  for  the  health  and  as  to  the  good  ways  of 
preparing  them;  as  to  the  medicines  and  habits 
of  exercise  that  are  of  curative  value;  as  to  the 
methods  of  doing  business  and  conducting  ex- 
perimental science  and  of  education  that  are  good 
for  the  individual  and  for  society;  and  also,  per- 
haps we  ought  to  say,  chiefly,  as  to  what  is  morally 
good  or  bad  in  matters  of  conduct. 

Of  the  two  ways  of  measuring  the  satisfactions 
in  which  the  experience  of  what  is  good  consists, 
one  may  be  called  the  measure  of  quantity  or 
intensity  and  the  other  the  measure  of  intrinsic 
worth  or  value.  We  have  said  that  these  two 
ways  of  estimating  the  good  have  always  existed; 
we  repeat  and  specially  emphasize  the  word 
"  always,"  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  ancient  schools 
of  ethics  and  of  modern  scientific  theories  of 
evolution,  to  the  contrary. 

As  long  as  the  standard  of  quantity  is  strictly 
maintained,  there  is  no  argument  available  to 
convince  a  man  that  he  ought  to  prefer  one  kind 

[62] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

of  good  to  another.  The  decision  of  the  question 
as  to  which  is  the  better  of  two  forms  of  good 
remains  dependent  upon  the  answer  to  the  other 
question:  Which  is  in  fact  the  greater  of  the 
two  satisfactions?  Or  if  we  substitute  the  word 
pleasure,  as  the  only  conceivable  kind  of  satisfac- 
tion, we  seem  forced  to  the  conclusion:  "Quantity 
of  pleasure  being  equal,  push-pin  is  as  good  as 
poetry."  But  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any  in- 
tellectually and  morally  normal  individual  who 
finds  satisfaction  in  such  a  motto  as  this,  whether 
applied  by  others  to  himself  or  by  himself  to 
others.  True  is  the  saying  of  Carlyle  on  this 
subject:  "In  the  meanest  mortal  there  lies 
something  nobler."  And  we  can  scarcely  doubt 
that  there  have  been  men  who  could  honestly 
say  with  Browning's  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra: 

"Then  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 
Be  our  joys  three  parts  pain, 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe." 

Thus  far,  however,  we  are  only  compelled  to 
admit  that  some  men  are  so  constituted  that 
the  fight  to  overcome  difficulties,  the  "throwing 
themselves  all  into  the  struggle,"  gives  them  a 
more  intense  and  somehow  larger  quantity  of 
satisfaction  than  the  finding  of  things  so  smooth 
in  their  pathway  as  not  to  stimulate  the  spirit 
and  the  activities  of  a  strenuous  revolt. 

[63] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

We  have  already  seen  that  the  moral  feelings 
connected  with  the  message,  "I  ought"  (or,  "I 
ought  not")  are  in  themselves  considered,  or 
just  as  normal  mental  states,  either  feelings  of 
attraction  or  feelings  of  repulsion.  They  have 
pleasures  or  pains  connected  with  them;  and  they 
become  attached  to  different  deeds  or  species  of 
conduct.  !  We  have  also  anticipated,  what  will 
be  shown  more  clearly  in  other  connections,  how 
it  is  that  certain  judgments  and  certain  principled 
habits  become  devoted  to  these  feelings;  or  — 
in  rarer  cases  —  involved  in  a  sort  of  conflict  with 
them.  Now  since  conduct  is  the  sphere  within 
which  we  find  that  which  is  good  and  that  which 
is  bad  from  the  moral  point  of  view,  in  using 
these  terms  we  seem  to  be  appealing  to  a  new 
kind  of  satisfaction.  Good  conduct,  then,  is  that 
which  gives  satisfaction  to  moral  consciousness, 
—  either  as  feeling,  or  as  judgment;  or  so  far  as 
is  possible,  both.  Bad  conduct  is  that  which 
produces  dissatisfaction  from  the  moral  point  of 
view;  or  if  we  deny  that  any  action  which  is 
properly  called  conduct  can  be  neutral  from  the 
moral  point  of  view,  bad  conduct  is  that  which 
fails  to  give  satisfaction  when  regarded  from  the 
moral  point  of  view. 

We  have  another  pair  of  words  which  we  apply 
with  equal  facility,  and  perhaps  with  even  greater 
frequency,  to  the  two  classes  of  conduct,  —  that 
which  produces  satisfaction  and  that  which  does 
not.  These  are  the  words  right  and  wrong. 

[64] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

These  words  are  not  so  inward  in  their  meaning, 
are  not  what  the  psychologists  would  call,  so 
subjective.  The  figure  of  speech  from  which  these 
words  are  derived  is  explained  as  the  drawing  of 
a  line  or  the  marking-out  of  a  path  along  which 
the  conduct  of  life  should  be  directed.  The 
conduct  which  follows  this  line  is  right;  that 
which  departs  from  this  line  is  wrong.  The 
person  who  keeps  to  the  path  is  in  the  right; 
the  person  who  steps  out  of  this  path  has  wandered 
from  the  right;  he  has  entered  upon  and  is  pursu- 
ing the  morally  wrong  way.  Combining  in  the 
ordinary  and  appropriate  fashion  the  two  pairs 
of  words,  as  they,  respectively,  emphasize  the 
inward  experience  of  satisfaction  or  dissatisfac- 
tion, and  the  visible  expressions  to  the  forms  of 
behavior  which  arouse  the  feeling  of  satisfaction 
and  its  opposite,  we  get  some  nearer  glimpses  of 
what  it  really  means  to  secure  the  good  things  of 
the  moral  life.  When  classified,  however  crudely 
and  imperfectly,  this  sort  of  "goods"  may  be 
described  as  the  so-called  virtues,  or  different  forms 
of  behavior  that  distinguish  the  virtuous,  or 
morally  good,  man.  Thus,  conduct  which  dis- 
plays the  virtue  of  courage  is  received  by  the 
moral  consciousness  as  one  of  the  species  of  be- 
havior that  gives  it  satisfaction.  The  same  thing 
is  true  of  the  virtue  of  wisdom,  of  the  virtue  of 
loyalty,  of  the  virtue  of  justice,  of  the  virtue  of 
kindness;  and  so  on  through  all  the  catalogue 
of  the  best  recognized  of  the  virtues. 

[65] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

But  when  the  practical  problem  is  faced, — 
especially  if  it  be  in  any  conspicuous  and  acute 
form, — of  giving  and  receiving  this  kind  of 
satisfaction  (that  afforded  by  the  morally  good), 
two  species  of  conflict,  of  more  or  less  painful 
doubt  and  difficulty,  are  quite  sure,  under  the 
universal  conditions  of  human  life,  sooner  or 
later  to  arise.  The  first  of  these  is  the  conflict 
between  pleasure  and  the  satisfaction  which 
morally  right  conduct  affords.  The  second  is 
the  puzzling  contest  between  the  claims  of  the 
virtues  themselves.  This  contest  of  claims,  to 
be  virtuous  in  one  way,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
be  virtuous  in  quite  another  and  for  the  time 
incompatible  way,  produces  by  no  means  infre- 
quently a  very  painful  hauling  in  opposite  direc- 
tions of  the  intention  of  the  man  who  sincerely 
wishes  to  do  the  right  thing,  or,  in  other  words, 
to  be  on  this  particular  occasion  satisfactorily 
good. 

Pleasure  is  indisputably  a  form  of  the  good 
which  the  sensitive  constitution  of  man,  as  both 
animal  and  rational,  compels  him  to  receive  with 
satisfaction.  To  be  in  a  state  of  pleasurable 
emotion  is,  essentially  considered,  to  be  realizing 
one  form  of  those  experiences  which  we  are  bound 
to  call  good;  but  to  suffer  pain  is,  in  itself 
considered,  a  bad  experience  for  any  sensitive 
creature.  Even  our  most  purely  moral  feelings 
cannot  be  separated  from  this  "pleasure-pain" 
quality;  it,  indeed,  seems  to  belong  to  nearly  if 

[66] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

not  quite  all  of  our  emotional  experiences.  The 
consciousness  of  having  done  what  one  ought  is 
always,  if  taken  by  itself,  a  pleasant  feeling;  but 
all  too  frequently  for  our  perfect  happiness  in 
trying  to  be  good,  the  apprehension  of  the  conse- 
quences, at  hand  or  in  the  future,  of  what  we 
have  considered  it  our  duty  to  do  much  more 
than  equals,  —  indeed,  of  ten  \  quite  submerges, 
the  pleasurable  side  of  the  moral  satisfaction. 
This,  however,  is  true  of  most  of  our  experiences, 
whether  regarded  from  the  moral  or  from  some 
other  point  of  view;  they  are  accompanied  and 
followed  by  a  mixture  of  both  pleasurable  and 
painful  feelings. 

There  is  no  commoner  experience  all  along  the 
course  of  moral  development  than  that  of  conflict 
between  conduct  which  offers  the  greatest  satisfac- 
tion in  the  form  of  pleasure  and  the  conduct  from 
which  we  expect  only  the  habitually  mild  and 
often  doubtful  pleasure  afforded  by  the  satisfac- 
tions of  an  approving  conscience.  If  under  the 
term  "happiness"  we  strive  to  hide  only  the  more 
dignified  and  lasting  forms  of  what  is  after  all 
nothing  nobler  than  the  experience  of  pleasure, 
the  fact  remains  unchanged.  There  is  little 
more  truth,  in  fact,  in  the  injunction,  "Be  good, 
and  you'll  be  happy,"  than  in  the  cynical  maxim 
which  affirms  that  the  conditions  of  the  most 
perfect  happiness  are  "good  digestion  and  no 


conscience." 


It  has  already  been   asserted  that  we  must 

[67] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

measure  the  different  forms  of  satisfaction  by 
their  quality,  their  standard  along  some  scale  of 
values,  and  not  by  their  quantity  or  intensity 
alone.  Were  this  not  actually  so,  as  a  reality 
set  firmly  and  irremovably  into  all  human  minds 
and  hearts,  and  into  all  social  relations  and  social 
institutions,  no  such  thing  as  morality  could  be 
conceived;  much  less  could  any  such  thing  as 
moral  distinctions  be  given  the  estimate  and 
influence  which  they  certainly  have  somehow 
sustained. 

"What  is  most  just  is  noblest,  health  is  best, 
Pleasantest  'tis  to  get  your  heart's  desire." 

So  ran  the  Delian  inscription;  and  when  quoting 
it  Aristotle  announces  the  conclusion:  "Happiness 
is  at  once  the  best  and  noblest  and  pleasantest 
thing  in  the  world,  and  these  are  not  separated." 
But  neither  the  oracle  nor  the  philosopher  intended 
to  submit  the  nobility  and  ideal  value  of  being  a 
good  man  from  the  moral  point  of  view  to  the 
standard  of  the  pleasure  which  the  good  man 
himself,  or  any  one  else,  was  going  to  get  out  of 
it.  Both  oracle  and  philosopher  distinguished 
sharply  between  what  was  noble  in  conduct  and 
character  and  the  pleasant  life  which  came  to 
the  man  who  somehow  succeeded  in  getting  his 
"heart's  desire."  And  the  philosopher,  when  he 
comes  to  develop  his  views  as  to  the  doctrine  of 
the  virtues  and  the  essentials  of  what  has  moral 
worth  and  gives  the  satisfaction  which  the  morally 
worthy  ought  to  command,  everywhere  clearly 
[68] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

enough  shows  that  by  "happiness"  he  means 
that  best  of  all  fortunes  which  we  call  "good." 
It  is  the  state  in  which  man  resembles  the  Divine 
Being,  the  quite  satisfactory  condition  in  which 
the  individual  may  place  himself,  but  only  can 
place  himself,  by  becoming  nobly  "good." 

But  it  is  not  in  terms  of  oracular  mysticism  or 
of  philosophical  technique  that  human  nature 
gives  its  most  decisive  testimony  to  the  higher,  if 
not  to  the  supreme  value  of  the  satisfaction,  and 
of  the  conduct  affording  this  satisfaction,  that 
belongs  most  definitely  if  not  exclusively,  to  the 
moral  sphere.  All  human  history  and  all  the 
institutions  developed  by  man  during  the  count- 
less eras  of  his  history  confirm  the  truth  of  what 
we  have  elsewhere  said  ("Philosophy  of  Conduct," 
p.  41)  in  the  following  words:  "It  is  a  fundamental 
and  indisputable  fact  that  men  estimate  the 
different  conscious  states  of  the  Self  as  differing 
in  value  according  to  a  standard  which  is  not 
merely  quantitative.  In  other  words,  goods  differ, 
as  estimated  in  human  consciousness,  not  only  in 
degrees,  but  also  in  excellence  or  worth.  That 
there  are  kinds  of  goods  which  have  different  — 
higher  and  lower  —  values  is  thus  an  opinion 
common  alike  to  the  multitude  and  to  all  the 
reflective  thinkers  of  mankind.  This  opinion  is 
but  the  expression  of  that  preference  for  certain 
states  of  consciousness  over  other  states,  irrespec- 
tive of  their  relations  as  regards  quantity  of  the 
same  kind,  which  belongs  to  all  the  artistic  and 

[69] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

ethical  development  of  humanity.  It  is  in  the 
effort  to  account  for  this  preference,  to  give  it 
validity,  to  defend  it  against  attacks,  and  to 
judge  ourselves  and  others  in  the  light  of  this 
radiance,  that  the  problems  of  ethics  divide  men 
into  different  opinions  and  different  schools. 
For  a  science  of  ethics  only  begins  when  it  is  seen 
that  men's  actions  are  consciously  directed  toward, 
or  unconsciously  terminate  in,  some  one  of  the 
several  forms  of  the  'good'  (or  its  opposite): 
and  then  the  effort  is  made  to  give  a  rational 
unity  to  all  these  forms,  and  to  regard  the  ac- 
cepted rules  of  conduct  as  the  different  ways  in 
which,  as  men  believe,  these  forms  may  be 
obtained." 

From  the  practical  point  of  view  which  domi- 
nates all  our  procedure,  we  do  not  think  it  right 
just  now  to  argue  the  universal  statement  that 
has  just  been  made,  by  adducing  in  its  proof  the 
facts  of  past  history  and  of  present  observation 
so  amply  justifying  it.  We  derive  from  it  at 
once,  however,  this  most  valuable  of  all  the  rules 
for  giving  to  the  individual  inquirer,  What  ought 
I  to  do  ?  a  partial  answer.  You  ought  to  establish 
in  your  mind  an  adequate  estimate  of  the  value 
of  the  morally  good,  the  worth  of  that  sometimes 
passionately  eager  and  absorbing,  but  more 
often  mild,  and  sometimes  even  largely  painful 
satisfaction,  which  the  morally  healthy  conscious- 
ness accords  to  conduct  that  is  "good,"  and  to 
the  character  of  the  "good"  man.  Stir  up 

[70] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

imagination  to  depict  the  worth  of  moral  good- 
ness. No  one  can  do  what  he  ought  to  do;  no 
one  can  even  know  what  he  ought  to  do;  unless 
he  achieves  and  maintains  a  covetous  and  admir- 
ing attitude  toward  the  morally  good.  One  may 
fail  in  becoming  rich  or  famous  or  learned,  who 
admires  and  covets  wealth  or  fame  or  knowledge; 
and  one  may  gain  wealth  by  inheritance,  and 
have  learning  and  fame  almost  unwillingly  thrust 
upon  one.  But  with  moral  goodness,  the  case 
is  not  the  same.  To  share  in  this  good  one  must 
estimate  it  as  having  great  worth;  to  find  this 
treasure,  one  must  seek  it  as  a  treasure  of  the 
rarest  value.  One  must  be  ambitious  to  realize 
this  good  in  the  conduct  of  one's  life. 

The  immediate  and  practical  answer  to  the 
question,  What  then  ought  I  to  do?  is  so  far  forth 
plain:  I  ought  to  commit  myself  intelligently  and 
whole-heartedly  to  the  kind  of  conduct,  to  the 
attainment  of  that  measure  of  personal  being,  which 
gives  the  satisfaction  of  being  worth  whatever  it 
may  cost.  And  this  worth  is  not  to  be  estimated 
because  the  doing  of  the  good  thing,  or  the  being 
a  good  person,  is  instrumental  somehow  —  how- 
ever surely  —  to  the  securing  of  more  of  a  less 
noble  and  worthy  form  of  good.  This  good  is 
itself  to  be  estimated  by  me,  as  it  has  always 
virtually  been  estimated  by  the  race,  as  a  good 
having  the  greatest  intrinsic  worth.  To  such  a 
height  did  the  ancient  Stoic  philosophy  raise 
its  estimate  of  the  value  of  the  morally  good 

[71] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

as  to  say:  "God  is  beneficial.  Good  is  also 
beneficial.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  where  the 
essence  of  God  is,  there  too  is  the  essence  of 
good."  And  to  every  man:  "You  are  a  distinct 
part  of  the  essence  of  God,  and  contain  a  certain 
part  of  him  in  yourself." 

But  the  highest  possible  estimate  of  the  value 
of  doing  the  morally  right  deed,  of  the  practice 
of  this  or  that  virtue,  or  even  of  the  habitual 
practice  of  all  the  virtues,  as  mere  estimate,  surely 
cannot  be  held  fully  to  answer  the  question, 
What  ought  I  to  do?  The  intention  must  be 
fixed  on  getting  this  good.  And  in  saying  this 
word  we  introduce  a  topic  which  has  given  rise 
to  no  little  controversy.  Is  the  main,  the  decisive 
thing  in  doing  the  good  deed,  or  in  being  quite 
good,  to  be  located  in  the  intention?  Do  we  do 
all  that  we  ought  when  we  intend  what  is  morally 
right?  Is  the  intention  to  be  good  identical  with 
the  really  and  truly  being  good? 

In  the  discussions  awakened  by  these  questions, 
and  in  the  practical  answers  given  to  them,  we 
come  upon  one  of  those  many  cases  where  the 
careless  use  of  words,  and  the  sad  lack  of  clear 
thinking,  are  followed  by  most  mischievous 
results.  On  the  one  hand,  are  we  not  assured 
even  by  the  stringency  of  biblical  writers  that 
the  bad  "heart"  makes  all  the  difference;  and 
by  a  long  line  of  moralists  that  it  is  the  "motive," 
or  —  better  still  —  the  "intention,"  which  dis- 
tinguishes between  the  right  and  the  wrong  of 

[72] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

conduct,  the  good  man  and  the  bad  man?  And 
what  excuse  is  more  common  with  the  moral 
blunderer  than  that  he  meant  no  harm?  Or, 
for  him  by  his  friends,  than  this:  He  meant  well; 
he's  a  fellow  of  the  best  intentions? 

On  the  other  hand,  are  we  to  forget  that  the 
obligation  to  make  good  use  of  his  reason  lies  on 
every  rational  being;  that  one  has  no  right  not  to 
think;  and  that  wisdom  in  planning  and  courage 
and  decision  in  carrying  out  one's  plans  are 
among  the  most  important  of  the  virtues?  The 
coward  and  the  fool,  in  spite  of  no  end  of  good 
intentions  and  kindly  motives,  are  full  apt,  if  not 
full  fain,  to  make  a  moral  mess  of  it,  when  the 
moment  for  action  has  arrived.  And  are  we  wholly 
to  overlook  the  truth  contained  in  the  cynical 
saying:  "Hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions"?! 

But  what  more  can  a  man  do  with  the  moral 
question  than  always  to  estimate  at  the  highest 
its  importance  and  always  intend  to  give  to  it  the 
right  practical  answer?  The  dilemma,  into  which 
such  a  proposal  of  the  moral  problem  would  not 
only  temporarily  throw  but  finally  leave  us,  can 
be  answered  only  when  we  turn  our  minds  back 
to  recall  what  we  have  already  discovered  to  be 
true  with  respect  to  the  import  of  this  problem. 
The  moral  problem  has  to  do  with  the  person  and 
with  the  whole  person;  it  concerns  personal 
relations,  in  all  manner  of  personal  relations. 
Unless  by  right  motive,  or  good  intention,  we 
mean  v  to  include  an  attitude  assumed  and  stead- 

[73] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

fastly  maintained  by  the  entire  personal  life 
toward  the  message  of  "the  ought,"  we  cannot 
find  in  either  word  (motive  or  intention)  the 
quite  satisfactory  answer  to  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  Aristotle  saw  this  more  clearly 
than  most  theologians  or  psychologists  have 
seen  it  since  Aristotle's  day.  For  he  said:  "If 
the  purpose  is  to  be  all  that  it  should  be,  both 
the  calculation  or  the  reasoning  must  be  true,  and 
the  desire  must  be  right."  It  is  only,  then,  when 
"good  intention"  includes  the  whole  moral  Self  in 
its  intelligent  and  persistent  efforts  to  realize  in 
life  the  moral  ideal,  that  good  intention  can  pro- 
perly be  held  also  to  include  the  essence  of  the  mor- 
ality which  belongs  to  all  the  virtues,  the  priceless 
treasure  of  the  secret,  how  to  be  a  really  good  man. 

But  there  are  two  considerations  which  afford 
no  little  relief  to  the  burden  which  the  candidate 
for  a  title  to  the  perfection  of  virtue  may  feel, 
from  finding  that  the  standard  for  his  self-exami- 
nation, and  for  his  esteem  by  the  moral  sages  and 
authorities  among  his  fellows,  is  placed  so  un- 
attainably  high.  The  forming  of  good  intentions 
is  often  the  best  possible  exercise  of  virtue; 
sometimes  it  is  the  only  way  of  virtue  possible 
under  the  circumstances.  In  such  circumstances, 
the  will-full  fixing  of  the  mind  on  the  idea  of 
virtue,  while  lying  in  wait  for  the  chance  to 
realize  it,  is  the  very  best  thing  which  the  good 
man  can  contrive  to  do.  These  virtues  of  delib- 
erate and  rather  cool  intention  may  be  called 

[74] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

"the  Puritanic  virtues."  The  man,  however, 
who  has  only  these  virtues,  or  who  has  them 
predominatingly,  is  not  apt  to  be  esteemed  as  a 
morally  lovely  man.  And  this  is  precisely  as  it 
should  be.  For  there  are  certain  forms  of  feeling 
which  by  their  very  spontaneity  seem  to  gain 
much  in  moral  beauty.  Such  are  the  feelings  of 
kindliness,  hospitality,  generosity,  and  much  of 
courage  and  self-control.  Righteous  anger,  and 
out-flaming  hatred  of  injustice,  are  not  wanting 
in  their  title  to  similar  virtuousness,  though  in  a 
somewhat  different  way. 

It  seems,  then,  that  the  virtue  of  habitually 
intending  well  is  a  kind  of  deliberative  and  volun- 
tary wisdom;  and  that  this  virtue  properly 
emphasizes  the  duty  of  man  to  plan  his  conduct, 
wherever  this  is  possible,  so  as  to  put  his  moral 
reason  and  right  resolve  into  appropriate  action, 
when  the  time  for  action  comes. 

But  "being  good"  is  a  conception  of  a  life  much 
more  complex  and  difficult  of  attainment  than 
that  which  comprises  the  more  or  less  successful 
practice  of  any  one  or  two  of  the  virtues  in  any 
one  or  two  of  the  various  classes  of  relations  in 
which  the  social  environment  estimates  the  moral 
worth  of  the  individual  man.  There  are  few  or 
none  so  morally  wretched  and  ill-formed,  whether 
by  nature  or  by  evil  habits,  that  they  have  nothing 
of  any  of  the  virtues!  Indeed,  there  are  not 
many  who  do  not  secretly  cherish  a  bit  of  most, 
if  not  of  all,  of  them.  But  to  be,  as  the  phrase 

[75] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

is,  "all-around  good,"  is  something  more  than  to 
be  conspicuous  for  courage,  or  for  wisdom,  or  for 
probity,  or  for  kindness,  or  for  whatever  other 
particular  virtue  you  choose  to  name.  Nor  is  it 
the  same  thing  as  to  be  a  good  father,  a  good  son, 
or  a  good  brother,  a  good  teacher,  lawyer,  doctor, 
or  what  not,  or  even  a  good  citizen,  —  using  the 
word  good  always  in  its  ethical  significance. 

The  truly  good  man  exhibits  a  kind  of  symmetry 
in  the  virtues,  a  proportion  of  a  rational  and  ideal 
sort  in  the  various  types  of  good  conduct,  which 
is  lacking  to  those  who  are  good  in  one  or  two 
directions  only.  Indeed,  the  disproportionate  or 
exaggerated  display  of  many  of  the  so-called 
virtues  seems  nearly  or  quite  to  deprive  them  of 
their  virtuous  character.  And  here  is  where  the 
goodness  of  the  moral  type,  or  that  in  conduct  and 
character  which  has  intrinsic  worth  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  seeker  after  moral  good, 
combines  with  the  good  worth  of  truth  and  the 
good  worth  of  beauty.  The  value  of  truth  is  not, 
indeed,  to  be  wholly  measured  by  the  foundations 
which  it  establishes  for  moral  excellence  and  for 
a  social  order  that  is  righteous  in  constitution 
and  behavior;  but  not  to  regard  this  value  as 
worthy  to  define  opinion  and  direct  conduct,  — 
this  is  to  be  immoral  in  a  most  destructive  way. 
Every  trace  of  shamming  or  pretence,  every 
shadow  or  suspicion  of  the  untrue,  the  unreal, 
in  conduct  and  in  character,  puts  a  blot  on  the 
realization  of  the  intention  to  be  good. 

[76] 


THE  INTENTION  OF  "BEING  GOOD" 

Being  good  is  also  being  beautiful,  —  as  a 
person,  judged  by  the  harmonies  and  sesthetical 
qualities  of  conduct  and  of  character.  The 
good  of  beauty  is  not  the  same  precisely  as  the 
good  of  morality.  Each  has  its  own  intrinsic 
type  of  value.  But  some  of  the  virtues  excite 
sesthetical  feeling  and  approving  judgment  in 
the  form  of  sublimity;  others,  rather,  in  the  form 
of  harmony;  still  others,  in  the  form  of  that  which 
men  call  "handsome." 

Being  good,  then,  in  the  noblest  form  of  the 
conception  covered  by  these  words,  implies  a 
sort  of  realization  in  the  concrete  and  individual 
shape  of  personality,  of  all  these  three  kinds  of 
that  which  has  intrinsic  worth.  How  this  can  be, 
invites  our  quest  for  the  answer  to  the  question 
What  ought  I  to  do?  out  into  the  wider  fields  of 
life  and  of  reality.  Until  he  has  entered  into 
these  fields,  it  will  probably  remain  true  of  the 
most  earnest  questioner,  — 

"That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  nature  can  he  nowhere  find, 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind." 

But  at  least  we  may  quote  Epictetus  once 
more.  "Shall  I  show  you  the  muscular  training 
of  a  philosopher  (a  truly  good  man)?" 

"What  muscles  are  those?" 

"A  will  undisappointed,  evils  avoided,  powers 
duly  exercised,  careful  resolutions,  unerring  de- 
cisions (sic).  These  you  shall  see." 

[77] 


CHAPTER  IV 
ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

rHE  notion  of  Duty  as  covering  the  sphere 
of  conduct  from  the  moral  point  of  view, 
in  any  broad  and  comprehensive  way, 
is  a  product  of  modern  social  development  and 
modern  reflective  thinking.  Its  essential  meaning, 
as  involved  in  its  very  derivation  and  as  conse- 
crated and  preserved  by  long  usage,  involves 
these  two  factors:  (1)  an  obligation  or  debt; 
and  (2)  some  particular  person  to  whom  the 
obligation  is  directed,  to  whom  the  debt  is  owing. 
Putting  the  two  together  we  may  say  that  a  duty 
is  a  piece  of  conduct,  or  an  habitual  way  of  be- 
having, toward  some  person  as  his  due.  But  as 
long  as  the  essential  qualities  of  conduct  —  that 
which  makes  it  to  be  right  or  wrong,  good  or  bad 
—  depend  upon  differences  regarded  as  equally 
essential  between  different  persons,  classes  of 
persons,  and  relations  of  persons,  there  can,  of 
course,  be  no  one  principle  which  rules  over  all. 
There  can  only  be  duties;  there  can  be  no  one 
duty,  no  universal  principle  of  duty-doing,  —  for 
example,  to  treat  all  men  with  equal  justice,  kind- 
ness, benevolence,  brotherly  love,  or  what  not., 
[78] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

All  over  the  ancient  world,  and  scarcely  less 
down  to  and  into  the  modern  world,  wherever 
the  principles  of  Christian  brotherhood  have  not 
effectively  penetrated,  sharp  distinctions  in  the 
duties,  but  no  established  and  principled  notions 
and  practices  of  doing  duty  according  to  some 
unchanging  law  or  ideal,  have  maintained  them- 
selves.    How  this  has  been,  in  fact,  let  us  quote 
from  the  book  ("Philosophy  of  Conduct,"  p.  369) 
already   several   times   referred   to,   in   order   to 
show:     "Where   the   relations   which   define   the 
different  classes   and   different  circumstances   of 
mankind    are    sufficiently    permanent,    we    find 
arising  out  of  them  some  specific  formulas  that 
prescribe  the  corresponding  duties.     For  example, 
the  relations  of  the  family  bear  upon  the  con- 
sciences of  the  different  members  of  the  family 
in    different    ways.    Husbands    and    wives    owe 
each  other  some  duties;    but  between  the  chief 
of  the  tribe  and  the  other  tribesmen,  or  between 
the  common  members  of  the  same  tribe,  other 
duties    are    owing.     In    the    narratives    of    the 
Homeric  era  we  have  a  picture  of  a  variety  of 
obligations  under  which  gods  and  men  stand  to 
each  other,  and  all  to  Zeus;    while  the  different 
classes  of  persons  among  the  allied  Greek  forces 
acknowledge  peculiar  duties  as  belonging  to  each 
one  of  them;    nor  are  even  Greeks  and  Trojans 
so  alien  that  no  duties  whatever  are  felt  to  be 
incumbent  upon  both  in  their  reciprocal  relations. 
In  our  modern  commercial  civilization  it  is  the 

[79] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

duties  of  men  and  women  that  grow  out  of  their 
various  economic  relations  which  are  chiefly 
emphasized;  and  even  domestic,  social,  and 
religious  duties  are  either  relegated  to  the  back- 
ground of  privacy  or  else  are  themselves  dis- 
charged as  matters  of  contract  and  of  commercial 
justice.  Indeed,  there  seems  to  be  danger  that 
in  England,  America,  and  Germany  all  human 
duties  will  be  regarded  from  the  commercial  point 
of  view,  —  while  in  the  Orient,  and  especially 
perhaps  with  the  Hindu  and  the  Muhammadan, 
duties  have  chiefly  to  do  with  religious  and  social 
relations;  while  commerce  and  trade  are  matters 
that  are  conducted  with  an  appalling  lack  of  any 
consciousness  of  being  bound  by  the  sentiment 
of  duty  or  the  principles  of  the  moral  law." 

During  the  centuries  preceding  our  own,  the 
relations  of  the  classes,  and  of  the  different  indi- 
viduals within  those  classes,  had  become  so  well 
defined  in  the  civilizations  of  Europe  and  this 
country,  as  to  make  the  path  of  the  man  who 
wished  to  perform  faithfully  all  his  duties  tolerably 
clear.  But  these  relations  themselves  had  been 
shaped,  and  in  turn  dominated,  by  conflicting 
and  even  by  morally  opposite  forces.  On  the 
one  hand,  there  was  the  sentiment  of  honor 
arising  from  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  and  the  feeling 
of  kindness  due  to  the  Christian  idea  of  brother- 
hood, under  which  the  relations  of  the  many 
weaker  and  the  few  strong  ones  were  rather 
strictly  prescribed.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
[80] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

remained  the  powerful  sinister,  sensual,  and 
purely  commercial  motives,  which  have  always 
infected  all  human  relations.  These  too  often 
dominated  or  corrupted  the  finer  sentiments; 
and  they  not  infrequently  introduced  confusions 
into  the  old-time  questions,  and  additional  puzzles 
in  the  form  of  new  questions,  for  the  truly  con- 
scientious mind.  In  this  dual  way  modern  society 
attained  in  the  Occident  a  kind  of  solidarity 
which,  while  it  expressed  much  that  was  morally 
good,  also  covered  much  that  was  morally  evil, 
in  its  doctrine  and  practice  touching  the  duties 
owing  from  every  individual  man  to  his  fellow 
man. 

Of  late,  however,  a  fearful  rumor  and  an  in- 
creasingly sure  prospect  of  radical  changes  in 
the  essentials  of  social  organization  —  domestic, 
economic,  political,  and  indeed  most  thorough 
in  every  chief  kind  of  human  relations — must  be 
faced  by  the  modern  world.  The  causes  that 
are  effecting  these  changes  are  powerful  and 
manifold.  What  may  be  called,  though  in  a 
somewhat  vague  and  indefinite  way,  "the  rising 
of  the  democracy,"  with  its  diminished  estimate 
of  the  social  importance  and  moral  value  of 
distinctions  of  class,  rank,  or  official  position, 
has  already  greatly  upset  the  popular  notions  as 
to  the  duties  that  are  owing  on  account  of  these 
distinctions.  The  discoveries  of  the  modern 
sciences  and  the  added  mastery  over  the  earth's 
material  resources  have  vastly  changed  the  eco- 

[81] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

nomic  relations  of  the  classes.  The  alterations 
of  opinion  on  matters  of  moral  and  religious 
import,  and  the  decay  of  faith  in  certain  moral 
and  religious  ideals,  have  accelerated  this  process 
of  change.  The  evils  of  the  time-honored  social 
customs,  such  as  economic  advantages  afforded 
to  the  morally  undeserving,  the  wrongs  inflicted 
on  children,  women,  and  on  the  poor  and  defence- 
less, and  the  more  hideous  evils  of  vice,  which 
have  been  exploited  by  the  press,  and  given  to 
millions  of  readers  in  the  forms  of  novel  and 
drama,  make  a  loud  call  upon  all  good  people  to 
attempt  their  repression,  if  their  complete  over- 
throw be  impossible.  Athwart  the  plain  path  of 
daily  duty-doing  is  thrown  the  alarming  spectre 
of  one  big  and  solemn  duty,  —  no  less  than 
to  change  the  whole  system  which  has  hitherto 
made  this  path  seem  so  plain  and  secure.  But 
duties  depend  on  relations.  Duties  must  there- 
fore change  as  relations  change.  The  changes  in 
relations  that  are  already  half  effected  are  impor- 
tant and  numerous.  The  changes  proposed  for 
the  near  future  are  almost  unlimited.  "Good 
people  all"  are  summoned  to  take  active  part  in 
effecting  these  changes.  Both  the  call  and  the 
prospect  contribute  toward  making  the  problem 
of  duty  increasingly  complicated. 

Especially  conspicuous  and  alarming  is  the 
upsetting  of  the  established  code  of  specific  duties 
as  pertaining  to  the  relations  of  the  sexes  in  the 
life  of  the  family.  To  make  one  anxious  on  this 

[82] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

point,  it  is  not  necessary  to  hold  any  special 
theory  of  the  nature  and  origin  of  the  marriage 
tie,  or  of  the  resulting  family  life.  One  may 
espouse  the  ideal  of  the  Republic  of  Plato  or  of 
the  most  extreme  of  the  modern  Socialists  and  so- 
called  "Feminists";  of  the  primitive  man  in  Aus- 
tralia and  the  Andaman  Islands;  of  the  Mormons, 
or  of  the  early  Christian  and  present  Roman 
Catholic  Church;  in  no  case  can  the  awful  preg- 
nancy of  this  upbreaking  of  the  marital  code  of 
duties  for  the  future  social  and  moral  condition  of 
the  nations  be  minimized  or  overlooked. 

Something  similar  might  be  said  with  respect 
to  the  changes  which  are  so  rapidly  taking  place 
concerning  the  notions  of  what  is  due,  from  the 
moral  point  of  view,  as  growing  out  of  all  manner 
of  political  and  economic  relations.  Can  the 
subject  owe  service  to  a  Government  in  which  he 
has  no  rights  equal  to  those  of  the  most  favored 
of  its  subjects?  Are  we  to  render  tribute  to 
Caesar,  just  because  he  is  Caesar,  although  he  is 
not  our  choice  as  Caesar?  Does  the  employer 
owe,  above  the  promised  wages,  a  share  in  the 
profits  to  those  whom  he  has  employed?  And  if 
the  workman  shares  in  the  profits,  is  it  not  his 
duty  to  "stand  for"  his  share  in  the  losses  of  this 
kind  of  partnership?  Is  it  the  duty  of  the  citizen 
to  pay  duties  —  his  moral  duty  to  submit  to  the 
customs-collector  —  to  a  Government  that  is 
violating  its  duty  to  all  the  citizens  by  favoring 
certain  classes  of  its  citizens?  And  so  on  and 

[83] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

so  on  ad  indefinitum;  for  we  can  scarcely  expect 
to  arrive  at  the  end  of  this  chapter. 

It  appears,  then,  that  there  is  no  discharge 
from  this  war,  —  the  conflict  of  the  duties  owed, 
the  debit  of  conduct  under  which  we  find  our- 
selves on  account  of  the  complexity  of  the  rela- 
tions in  which  we  are  forced  to  stand  toward  our 
fellow  men;  and  that  the  more  the  established 
code  of  such  duties  is  made  a  matter  of  rational 
investigation  and  of  the  attempts  of  various 
interests  for  its  improvement,  the  more  sharp 
and  perplexing  this  conflict  is  destined,  from  the 
very  nature  of  the  case,  to  become.  At  the 
present  moment,  for  the  man  who  really  intends 
to  be  good,  the  finding  out  of  his  particular 
duties  toward  specific  classes  of  his  fellows  in  the 
social  system  seems  complicated  as  never  before. 
Society  itself  is  more  than  ever  complicated; 
and  its  old-fashioned  constitution  is  rapidly  being 
broken  up. 

Concrete  duties,  or  the  ways  of  behavior  which 
one  person  is  indebted  to  accord  to  another, 
must  always  differ  in  dependence  upon  unavoid- 
able differences  in  relations.  Abolish  all  family 
life  as  at  present  constituted,  and  the  duties  of 
male  and  female  in  the  pairing  cannot  possibly 
be  precisely  the  same;  nor  can  the  morally  right 
forms  of  behavior  of  the  begetter  to  the  begotten, 
or  of  the  bearer  of  the  offspring  to  the  offspring 
borne,  be  reduced  to  a  visible,  external  identity. 
If  there  is  to  be  any  form  of  government  main- 

[84] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

* 

tained,  even  the  loosest  and  most  extreme  con- 
ceivable democracy,  those  who  govern  and  those 
who  are  governed  must  "pay  attention"  to  each 
other;  and  so  must  all  the  different  departments 
of  the  Government,  in  the  performance  of  their 
allotted  duties  as  well  as  in  the  exercise  of  their 
prescribed  rights.  Suppose  that  we  in  imagina- 
tion throw  all  social,  political,  and  other  forms  of 
organized  relations  to  one  side,  and  just  conceive 
of  every  man,  unbidden  and  unguided  by  law  or 
custom,  doing  for  the  moment  what  seems  matter 
of  duty  in  his  own  eyes.  Suppose  that  we  abolish 
all  respect  for  particular  persons,  and  all  rules  of 
duty-doing  as  based  on  particular  personal  rela- 
tions, by  an  abstract  respect  for  personality  as 
such.  The  case  of  the  really  good  man,  of  the 
soul  which  devoutly  wished  to  do  its  whole  duty 
to  every  other  soul,  would  become  the  most 
distracting  of  all,  the  one  most  surely  to  have  its 
right  solution  abandoned  in  despair.  The  better 
the  man,  the  more  miserably  uncertain  would  he 
be  as  to  the  infinite  variety  of  duties  owing  to 
such  an  infinite  variety  of  unadjudicated  cases. 

Our  theoretical  dubitation  as  well  as  practical 
perplexity  are  not  diminished  when  we  try  to 
make  up  our  minds  upon  questions  of  duty-doing 
in  general  by  a  process  of  independent  induction 
simply.  And  there  are  unsurmountable  obstacles 
in  the  way  when  we  propose  to  give  to  our  induc- 
tion an  experimental  turn.  There  is  no  inductive 
or  experimental  science  of  the  various  duties. 

[85] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

If  we  turn  to  those  who  have  appealed  to  the 
gods  as  the  trustworthy  lawgivers  of  the  pre- 
scriptions for  duty  in  extended  and  concrete 
form,  we  can  scarcely  fail  to  observe  the  truth  of 
what  Emerson  sang: 

"For  gods  delight  in  gods, 
And  thrust  the  weak  aside." 

Nor  is  it  the  Fijians  alone  among  whom  murder, 
cannibalism,  and  treachery  are  sanctioned  by  the 
gods.  On  the  other  hand,  the  list  of  virtues  rec- 
ommended by  the  Brahmanas  differs  very  little 
from  that  of  the  Decalogue.  And  according  to 
PISTIS  SOPHIA  the  Christian  who  has  been  ini- 
tiated into  the  mysteries  discoursed  about  by 
Jesus  with  Mary  Magdalene:  "Though  he  be  a 
man  in  the  world,  yet  is  he  higher  than  all  gods, 
and  shall  be  exalted  among  them  all."  And  then 
there  are  the  teachings  of  Buddha  announcing  — 

"Within  the  Doctrine's  pale,  that  rule  of  conduct 
Outside  of  which  no  genuine  monk  existeth." 

If  we  resort  with  our  questioning  about  our  duties 
to  the  highest  of  all  authorities  we  find  him  of 
all  teachers  about  the  least  regardful  of  the 
"debts"  which  social  conventions  had  laid  upon 
men's  shoulders,  especially  in  the  form  of  religious 
observances,  but  emphasizing  the  joyful  spirit 
of  service,  the  living  soul  of  all  duty-doing,  as 
sons  of  God  in  all  relations  with  our  brothers 
among  men.  But  this  only  throws  us  back  on 
somebody's  judgment  (if  not  always  or,  indeed, 
[86] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

in  any  case  completely  and  independently  our 
own)  as  to  the  particular  deeds  and  habits  of 
action  that  are  to  be  picked  out,  as  the  phrase  is, 
from  the  miscellaneous,  —  the  "job  lot"  it  often 
seems,  of  the  duties  proper  to  the  different  particu- 
lar relations. 

Are  we  forced,  then,  simply  to  point  to  the 
spirit  of  duty  as  itself  a  comprehensive  way  of 
duty-doing,  while  left  to  enlightened  moral  judg- 
ment to  decide  upon  the  concrete  forms  in  which 
this  spirit  must  find  its  adequate  expression? 
On  the  one  hand,  there  is  the  dependence  of  society 
at  large,  and  of  all  kinds  of  social  constitutions 
and  social  intercourse,  on  the  character  of  the 
relations  entered  into  by  the  individuals  compris- 
ing it.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  the  fact  of 
the  dependence  of  our  duties  on  the  existing 
character  of  the  different  relations,  into  which  we 
are  forced  or  which  we  undertake  voluntarily, 
and  upon  the  changes  which  are  constantly  tak- 
ing place  in  these  relations.  How  complex  and 
shifting  does  the  situation  make  the  grounds  of 
moral  judgment  and  choice! 

Thus  far  it  would  appear  that  the  only  answer 
applicable  to  all  persons  who  are  honestly  inquir- 
ing as  to  their  duties  resolves  itself  into  these 
two  exhortations :  Possess  yourself  of,  and  cherish, 
the  spirit  of  duty;  and,  Cultivate  the  power  of 
correctly  (from  the  moral  point  of  view)  making 
up  the  mind  as  to  what  is  the  particular  duty 
under  such  or  such  circumstances.  This  will  be 

[87] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

doing  one's  duty,  while  at  the  same  time  —  it  is 
likely  —  being  frequently  perplexed  to  know, 
and  even  unable  after  reflection  to  decide,  what 
one's  duties  are.  The  good  man  may  commit 
-many  mistakes  about  his  duties  while  doing  his 
whole  duty.  But  he  will  not  commit  these 
mistakes  voluntarily,  or  through  immoral  care- 
lessness. 

It  seems,  then,  that  this  question,  like  the 
question  which  was  raised  in  the  last  Chapter, 
is  no  sooner  placed  close  to  the  skull  or  to  the 
breast  than  it  begins  to  strike  powerfully  inward. 
This  is,  indeed,  the  essential  quality  of  all  moral 
problems.  From  the  point  of  obligation  simply, 
or  chiefly,  they  are  puzzles  for  the  brain  and 
burdens  on  the  heart.  Their  essential  appeal  is 
to  the  spirit  that  is  in  man.  How  do  the  thoughts 
expand  and  the  heart  glow,  of  the  intending  good 
man,  the  soul  of  him  who  really  and  earnestly 
wishes  to  do  all  his  duties,  as  he  reads  that  sub- 
lime passage  from  the  treatise  on  "The  Pure 
Practical  Reason"  of  Immanuel  Kant.  "Duty! 
thou  sublime  and  mighty  name  that  dost  embrace 
nothing  charming  or  insinuating,  but  requirest 
submission,  and  yet  seekest  not  to  move  the  will 
by  threatening  aught  that  would  arouse  natural 
aversion  or  terror,  but  merely  boldest  forth  a 
law  which  of  itself  finds  entrance  into  the  mind 
and  yet  gains  reluctant  reverence  (though  not 
always  obedience),  a  law  before  which  all  inclina- 
tions are  dumb  even  though  they  secretly  counter- 

[88] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

work  it;  what  origin  is  there  worthy  of  thee, 
and  where  is  to  be  found  the  root  of  thy  noble 
descent  which  proudly  rejects  all  kindred  with 
the  inclinations;  a  root  to  be  derived  from  which 
is  the  indispensable  condition  of  the  only  worth 
which  men  can  give  themselves?" 

But  now  again  let  the  intending  good  man  — 
thoughts  expanded,  heart  aglow,  and  will  more 
than  ever  bent  on  doing  his  very  best  —  turn 
away  from  this  noble  exordium  to  Duty  and 
to  the  spirit  of  duty-doing,  and  ask  himself  this 
question:  "What  of  precise  directions  or  strictly 
available  information  have  I  obtained  in  my 
present  extreme  doubt  as  to  what  is  the  proper 
solution  of  my  to-day's  pressing  moral  problem?" 
What  is  my  duty  to  my  delinquent  debtor  or  my 
urgent  creditor;  to  the  solicitor  for  a  subscription 
to  a  society  about  whose  aims  and  methods  I  am 
still  in  doubt,  or  to  this  particular  beggar  on  the 
street  who  seems  to  me  an  exception  to  my  general 
rule  for  dealing  with  this  class  of  solicitors;  to 
the  friend  who  wants  help  in  the  enterprise  which 
I  fear  will  not  turn  out  for  his  good;  to  the  mem- 
ber of  my  family  who  craves  indulgence  for  doing, 
or  for  having  done,  what  I  cannot  heartily  ap- 
prove; or  to  my  country  which  demands  my 
support  in  a  matter  in  which  I  am  sure  it  is 
plainly  in  the  wrong?  To  the  man  who  asks 
himself,  Is  it  X  or  F  or  perhaps  Z  that  will  solve 
my  problem  as  to  the  proper  values  of  A,  B,  C9 
and  D?  —  such  formulas  as  that  of  Kant  afford 

[89] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

no  definite  answer.  They  are  not  to  be  —  or  if 
they  are  meant  to  be,  still  they  are  not  —  instru- 
ments of  precision.  We  do  not  go  to  them  for 
information  as  to  this  or  that  particular  duty. 
We  do  go  to  them  for  maintaining  a  high  sense 
of  the  value  of  duty-doing,  and  for  the  quickening 
of  our  drooping  and  jaded  spirit  of  devotion  to 
the  ideal  of  moral  life. 

The  man  who  asks  himself,  What  ought  I  to  do? 
—  meaning  by  this,  Just  precisely  what  is  my  duty 
toward  this  person,  or  this  cause  representing 
personal  welfare,  under  such  particular  cir- 
cumstances? —  is  not  left,  however,  perpetually 
unprepared  for  meeting  unpredictable  new  com- 
binations of  complicated  circumstances.  He  may 
fix  in  his  mind  certain  very  helpful  general  princi- 
ples, and  may  train  himself  in  certain  very  useful 
habits  of  disposition  and  of  action.  To  get  his 
point  of  standing  for  these  achievements  he  falls 
back  upon  the  essential  nature  of  all  conduct 
regarded  as  a  moral  affair.  As  regarded  from 
this  point  of  view,  whatever  one  decides  upon  as 
one's  duty  must  be  done  in  the  spirit  of  respect 
for  the  interests  and  the  values  of  personal  life. 
In  other  words,  all  one's  conduct  from  the  moral 
point  of  view  is  the  dealing  of  oneself,  a  person, 
with  others  who  are  persons.  The  good  man 
cannot  treat  himself,  or  others  of  his  kind,  as 
though  either  he  or  they  were  less  than  persons, 
were  tools  or  things.  The  values  of  both  can 
never  be  reduced  to  those  of  a  merely  instrumental 

[90] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

sort.  Good  for  this  or  good  for  that,  both  he 
and  they  may  be  or  may  not  be;  possible  material 
for  good  men,  —  this  is  something  which  they 
must  be,  as  men,  each  in  all  the  others*  sight. 

Nothing  is  more  evident  to  the  observer  of 
the  present  conditions  regulating  the  conceptions 
and  practices  of  men  respecting  their  duties 
toward  one  another,  than  the  fact  that  the  larger 
proportion  of  all  the  crimes  and  immoralities, 
which  bring  so  much  distress  and  degradation  to 
individuals  and  so  much  loss  and  shame  to  society, 
arise  from  the  gross  and  almost  universal  viola- 
tion of  the  essential  spirit  of  Duty  and  the  funda- 
mental principle  of  all  duty-doing.  Men  treat 
themselves  and  others  as  less  than  persons,  as 
tools  or  things.  Tools  all  men  are;  since  they 
serve  some  purpose  in  shaping  the  structure  of 
society,  in  making  its  foundations  sound  or  rotten, 
its  superstructure  comfortable  or  miserable,  and 
aesthetically  ugly  or  fair.  Things,  too,  all  men 
are;  for  they  have  material  bodies,  physical 
needs,  and  moral  and  artistic  aptitudes  which 
can  be  realized  only  through  their  thing-like 
activities  and  relations  to  other  things.  But 
mere  things,  human  beings  never  are;  and  the 
most  important  guide  to  the  concrete  solution  of 
the  problem  of  the  duties  growing  out  of  this 
complex  nature  of  humanity  in  its  manifold 
relations  is  the  effective  memory  of  this  truth: 
It  is  duty  always  to  treat  the  other  "fellow," 
yourself  a  person,  with  the  respect  due  to  his 

[91] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

share  in  the  same  inestimable  values,  and  possi- 
bilities for  development,  of  a  personal  life. 

Further  help  is  gained  in  deciding  the  problem 
in  the  variability  of  duties  by  following  along  the 
same  line.  There  are  certain  forms  of  feeling  — 
or,  perhaps,  it  would  be  more  fitting  to  say, 
certain  "dispositions"  —  to  which  all  men  are 
entitled  from  one  another,  and  which  it  is  every 
man's  duty  to  give  to  every  other,  when  oppor- 
tunity for  the  satisfaction  of  the  right  by  gift  of 
the  duty  happens  to  arise.  How  far  they  can 
all  be  summed  up  in  any  one  form  of  disposition, 
however  deeply  principled  it  may  be,  we  shall 
consider  more  profitably  at  another  time.  "Owe 
no  man  anything,  but  to  love  one  another,"  is  a 
good  available  moral  maxim,  or  not,  according 
to  the  interpretation  given  to  the  word  "owe" 
and  the  word  "love."  Even  if  we  adopt  the 
maxim  for  our  own,  after  having  hit  upon  a  quite 
satisfactory  interpretation,  we  have  the  many 
problems  touching  the  varied  duties,  in  which 
this  love  should  display  itself,  still  remaining  on 
our  minds  and  hands. 

There  are,  however,  certain  dispositions,  or 
particular  habits  of  feeling,  with  their  tendency 
to  express  themselves  in  conduct,  which  the 
developed  moral  consciousness  of  the  race,  — 
largely,  if  not  chiefly,  under  the  persuasive  influ- 
ences of  religion,  —  has  come  to  think  are  due 
to  all  persons.  I  say  "the  developed  moral 
consciousness  of  the  race,"  meaning  by  this,  the 

[92] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

rather,  the  principles  and  practice  advocated  by 
the  good  few,  and  secretly,  even  sneakingly, 
accepted  as  good  for  others  toward  them,  if  not 
for  themselves  toward  others,  by  the  popular 
majority.  These  "dispositions"  may  be  enu- 
merated as  justice,  courage,  loyalty,  honesty,  and 
a  certain  measure  of  kindness,  fairness,  and  such 
like  virtues.  They  are  due  in  our  conduct  toward 
all  men,  even  if  they  do  not  belong  to  our  country- 
men, our  set  of  associates,  our  class.  Such  dis- 
positions are  virtuous  forms  of  feeling.  How  shall 
they  be  transformed  into  virtuous  deeds? 

Now  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  if  all  these 
dispositions  into  which  the  respect  for  per- 
sonality may  be  divided,  or  into  which  as  into 
channels  it  may  be  let  flow  from  the  heart  of  the 
good  man  upon  the  broader  fields  of  humanity, 
have  their  voices  listened  to,  they  tell  us  much 
as  to  the  direction  following  which  the  right  outlet 
in  duty-doing  is  to  be  found.  For  they  say  in- 
variably, "Be  just,  be  honest,  be  loyal,  be  fair, 
be  kind,  with  whomsoever  you  are  to  deal;  one 
or  more  of  these  dispositions  is  always  your  duty 
as  owing  to  all  men."  And  surely  it  would  often 
be  no  small  help  toward  deciding  the  problem  of 
one's  particular  doings  in  the  so-called  "line  of 
duty,"  to  listen  to  one  or  another  of  these  voices 
which  speak  from  the  heart  of  a  person  morally 
well-disposed.  Indeed,  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  if  every  one  habitually  gave  heed  to  their 
advice,  there  would  soon  be  left  few  or  none  of 

[93] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  most  puzzling  problems  over  what  is  the 
duty  to  be,  under  the  circumstances,  best  done. 

But  no  cultivation  of  respect  for  personal 
values,  or  of  the  spirit  of  devotion  to  duty,  how- 
ever helped  out  by  the  habitual  indulgence  of 
the  approved  moral  dispositions,  taking  men  in 
the  large  as  they  are  situated  and  constituted, 
can  do  away  with  the  stern  necessity  for  thinking 
out  a  certain  doctrine  of  the  duties,  and  for 
acquiring  by  practice  the  rapid  and  sure  intuition 
of  the  right  one  to  select,  the  particular  duty,  so 
to  say,  that  fits  precisely  the  ever-shifting  relations 
and  circumstances. 

Writers  on  morals  have  made  several  notable 
efforts  to  help  the  construction  of  such  a  doctrine 
by  classifying  the  duties  along  broad  general 
lines;  but  some  of  this  work  has  hindered  rather 
than  furthered  the  end  toward  which  it  has  been 
directed.  This  is  the  ease,  for  example,  with 
the  threefold  classification  into  duties  to  Self, 
duties  to  others,  and  duties  to  God  (or  as  poly- 
theistically  expressed,  "to  the  gods";  pantheisti- 
cally  expressed,  "to  the  Universe").  But  duties 
to  Self  cannot  be  done,  or  even  considered,  except 
as  deeds  and  habits  of  conduct  which  involve 
others;  and  duties  to  others  have  no  meaning  or 
force,  except  in  connection  with  what  we  owe 
ourselves  as  obligated  by  moral  consciousness  and 
having  respect  for  our  own  moral  being  as  one 
person  among  many  persons.  The  extremest 
duty  of  seZ/-sacrifice  is  a  duty  at  all,  only  as  it  has 

[94] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

reference  to  the  welfare  of  others;  and  no  con- 
ception of  the  welfare  of  others  can  lay  upon 
us  the  obligation  to  sacrifice  our  truest  and 
highest  and  most  valuable  Self.  Especially  in- 
felicitous is  the  classification,  apart,  of  religious 
duties.  If  there  are  any  duties  that  are  due  to 
God,  then  all  duties  are  equally  due  to  him. 
For  the  believer  in  the  Divine  Being  as  the  foun- 
tain of  all  law  and  doctrine  regarding  the  doing 
of  duty,  there  is  only  this  comprehensive  principle 
of  classification:  "He  hath  showed  thee,  O  man, 
what  is  good;  and  what  doth  Jehovah  require  of 
thee;  but  to  do  justly,  and  to  love  kindness,  and 
to  walk  humbly  with  thy  God?"  But  he  who 
has  not  this  belief  may  still  hold  that,  though  — 

"life  is  mostly  froth  and  bubble. 
Two  things  stand  like  stone  — 
Kindness  in  another's  trouble, 
Courage  in  your  own." 

The  realities  of  life,  however,  have  done  far 
more  for  the  successful  solution  of  concrete 
problems  of  duty  than  have  the  abstract  classi- 
fications and  the  debates  in  casuistry  of  the 
moralists.  This  service  they  have  rendered,  and 
perpetually  continue  to  render,  in  two  principal 
directions.  They  establish  the  relations  of  the 
persons  forming  society  in  the  large,  in  groups 
that  depend  for  their  grouping  on  relatively 
important  and  permanent  economic,  physical, 
and  psychical  conditions.  They  also  develop 
within  these  groups  customary  ways  of  behavior 

[95] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

between  individual  members  of  the  group,  which, 
although  they  may  cover  up  much  pretence  and 
even  shelter  no  little  vice,  do  on  the  whole  serve 
tolerably  well  for  regulating  the  expression  of 
those  right  moral  dispositions  to  which  reference 
was  just  made.  Thus  by  the  Will  of  the  World 
(the  will  of  God  as  immanent  in  man's  physical 
and  social  evolution)  and  by  the  collective  will  of 
previous  generations  of  men,  as  the  latter  has 
expressed  itself  in  customs,  laws,  and  the  preva- 
lent social  opinions,  the  really  "good  will"  of 
the  truly  dutiful  person  is  led  the  more  smoothly 
along  in  the  path  of  his  daily  duty-doing.  Each 
of  these  forms  of  service  which  the  well-disposed 
person  derives  from  his  social  grouping  and 
social  environment  needs  some  further  explana- 
tion and  illustrating. 

There  are  some  of  the  economic  and  physical 
relations,  within  which  the  individual  is  set  and 
which  limit  the  character  and  scope  of  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  his  daily  duties,  that  are  never 
easily,  and  perhaps  never  at  all,  to  be  essentially 
changed.  Amongst  these  the  natural  relations 
in  which  the  two  sexes  stand  to  each  other,  and 
upon  which  some  form  of  association  resembling 
the  family  must  be  based,  is  the  simplest  and  the 
most  ready  to  hand  for  purposes  of  illustration. 
The  relations  of  one  man  and  one  woman  in  the 
begetting  and  bearing  of  one  or  more  children, 
and  the  relations  of  the  offspring  during  the 
period  of  infancy,  youth,  and  adolescence,  to  the 

[96] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

adult  members  of  the  same  (shall  we  say,  "domes- 
tic"?) group,  are  fixed  by  physical  conditions. 
So  long,  then,  as  they  remain  to  be  considered  at 
all  from  the  moral  point  of  view,  the  character  of 
the  dispositions  which  must  be  put  into  the 
duties  of  those  persons  who  are,  as  a  matter  of 
actual  fact,  in  these  relations,  is  fixed  by  the  same 
conditions.  It  is  not  the  terms  of  the  marriage 
ceremony  as  they  are  constituted  by  the  customs 
of  the  Christian  churches,  or  as  they  are  made 
necessary  by  the  civil  law,  that  inaugurate  or 
authorize  these  moral  dispositions  and  the  duties 
which  grow  out  of  them.  It  is  not  the  divorce 
court,  whether  its  findings  meet  ecclesiastical 
approbation  and  secure  priestly  sanction,  or  not, 
that  has  the  right  or  the  power  to  lessen  or  to 
abrogate  these  moral  dispositions,  as  they  apply 
to  these  matter-of-fact  relations,  and  as  they 
find  expression  in  the  duties  appropriate  to  the 
relations. 

The  fundamental  question  of  duty  cannot  be 
dodged,  cannot  be  obscured  or  evaded.  Is  the 
sexual  relation  a  moral  affair?  Is  it  a  species  of 
conduct  that  incurs  obligation,  demands  right  dis- 
position, and  must  conform  to  moral  ideals?  On 
the  one  hand,  we  are  now  being  told  that  this 
sexual  relation  ought  never  to  be  entered  into 
except  on  the  basis  of  a  certain  kind  of  love;  on 
the  other  hand,  we  are  being  exhorted  to  believe 
that  when  this  particular  kind  of  love,  which  is 
not  under  the  control  of  the  individual,  and  is 

[97] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

not  a  moral  affair,  cools  or  ceases  between  the 
married  pair,  and  arises  and  grows  warm  be- 
tween one  of  this  pair  and  some  one  else,  it  is 
fitting  time  to  end  the  whole  relation.  Why,  then, 
should  there  be  vows  involving  any  disposition 
of  a  moral  sort  peculiar  to  the  relation?  And 
what  wonder  that  to  the  conservative  majority 
this  seems  like  a  proposal  to  take  the  whole 
relation  out  of  the  question  of  duty-doing,  out 
of  the  sphere  of  morality? 

The  various  economic  relations,  such  as  those 
of  partnership,  employer  and  employed,  seller 
and  purchaser,  trustee  and  stock-holder,  serve 
to  group  men  together  in  other  more  or  less 
permanent  relations  that  demand  and  afford 
scope  for  the  expression  of  certain  moral  disposi- 
tions in  appropriate  forms  of  the  doing  of  duties. 
If  the  most  extreme  Communism  came  to  prevail 
for  the  complete  reorganization  of  all  the  forms 
in  which  at  present  these  relations  constitute 
themselves,  the  moral  dispositions  that  ought  to 
control  the  daily  duties  of  the  individuals  who  are 
in  the  relations  would  remain  unchanged.  These 
dispositions  —  or,  at  least,  the  ones  which  most 
need  to  be  emphasized  —  are  not  precisely  the 
same  as  those  that  are  chiefly  consecrated  by  the 
family  life.  It  is  not  the  duty  of  the  partner  to 
give  the  same  tender,  solicitous,  and  protecting 
affection  to  his  business  partner  that  is  due  to  the 
partner  of  his  life,  the  wife  and  the  mother  of  his 
children.  Nor  would  time  and  strength  suffice 

[98] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

for  the  employer  of  a  thousand  girls  and  boys  to 
bestow  upon  each  one  the  same  discipline  and 
affectionate  care  which  he  is  in  duty  bound  to 
bestow  upon  his  own  sons  and  daughters.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  cannot  absolve  himself  from 
the  duty  of  giving  special  attention,  with  the 
appropriate  moral  disposition,  to  the  interests  of 
his  partner,  and  of  his  customers  or  employees. 
Thus  his  business  morality  is  defined  and,  as  it 
were,  ensphered,  hi  the  circle  of  economic  relations 
which  are  peculiarly  his  own. 

In  essentially  the  same  way  must  we  consider 
the  duties  of  the  good  man  toward  his  own  town, 
or  his  own  kin,  or  his  own  country.  To  accept 
the  particular  groups  of  relationship  into  which 
one's  own  choice,  or  certain  circumstances  beyond 
one's  control,  have  thrown  him,  as  a  sort  of 
Providential  definition  of  one's  duties,  a  partial 
limitation  of  one's  doubts  and  anxieties  over  the 
question,  Just  what  is  my  duty  here  and  now?  is 
the  safe  and  wise,  and  so  the  dutiful  course,  for 
one  who  wishes  to  plan  his  life  aright  from  the 
moral  point  of  view. 

Within  each  of  these  groupings  of  men  under 
varied  relations  a  certain  regulation  of  conduct 
by  way  of  law,  or  custom  enforced  by  public 
opinion,  has  already  taken  place.  The  attitude 
of  the  individual  toward  this  outside  pressure, 
as  that  of  an  atmosphere  above,  around,  and 
below,  must  inevitably  determine  both  his  notions 
and  his  practice  touching  the  doing  of  the  duties 

[99] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

of  the  daily  life.  What  ought  this  attitude  to 
be?  We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that,  in 
the  main,  it  ought  to  be  one  of  acceptance  and  of 
adaptation.  Or,  the  rather,  let  us  say  that  the 
really  good  man,  the  man  inspired  sufficiently 
and  guided  wisely  by  the  lofty  spirit  of  Duty, 
will  find  it  by  no  means  impossible  not  only  to 
adapt,  but  to  make  serviceable  to  this  spirit,  far 
the  greater  part  of  the  laws  and  the  customs  which 
constitute  his  civil  and  social  environment.  Laws 
and  customs  are  meant  to  compel  those  who  have 
not  this  spirit  to  set  certain  bounds  to  the  exhi- 
bition of  their  essential  immorality.  They  may 
afford  the  good  man  a  fairly  available,  though 
inadequate  system  of  expression  for  this  spirit. 
The  morally  right  attitude  toward  custom  is  not 
one  of  subservience;  but  neither  is  it  one  of 
revolt. 

Let  any  one  analyze  the  laws  and  the  customs 
which  it  is  prescribed  that  every  one  shall  observe 
who  wishes  a  reputation  for  correct  behavior  in 
the  community  of  which  he  is  a  member.  Let 
him  look  at  them,  not  in  the  ideality  which  at 
first  blush  they  assume;  but,  the  rather,  as  they 
really  are  when  we  consider  the  motives  out  of 
which  they  arose,  and  the  actual  way  in  which  they 
are  regarded  and  observed  by  many,  perhaps  by 
a  majority  of  the  community.  How  low  the 
intelligence  and  the  morality  of  the  men  who 
made  the  laws!  How  corrupt  the  officials  whose 
express  duty  it  is  to  enforce  them!  How  hypo- 

[100] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

critical  are  the  pleas  of  the  lawyers,  and  how 
disappointing  to  the  sense  of  essential  equity  the 
decisions  of  the  judges  in  our  "courts  of  justice" 
so-called!  And  with  what  impunity  do  the  rich, 
and  the  clever  rascals,  however  poor,  succeed 
in  evading  the  laws,  or  in  escaping  the  penalty 
for  breaking  them!  Who  can  doubt  that  much 
of  such  bitter  reflections  as  these  are  supported 
by  the  facts? 

Essentially  the  same  bitter  reflections  may 
quite  readily  follow  an  analysis  of  the  prevailing 
customs.  For  how  much  of  essential  immorality 
are  the  most  cherished  conventions  of  society 
made  a  cover  or  even  a  vehicle!  What  vicious 
dispositions  find  their  most  painful  and  destruc- 
tive means  of  expression  through  the  relations 
ordained  by  custom  for  the  marriage  state! 
How  lacking  in  the  old-fashioned  honor  are  the 
most  ordinary  transactions  of  the  present-day 
business  life!  How  are  the  successful  financiers, 
in  spite  of  the  horrible  immorality  of  their  methods, 
praised  from  the  pulpit  and  endowed  with  honor- 
able titles  by  the  Government  and  the  University! 
Indeed,  how  thoroughly  insincere  is  much  of  that 
very  social  intercourse  which  custom  has  pre- 
scribed for  the  expression  of  the  kindlier  of  the 
social  sentiments! 

With  similar  reflections  to  these  are  a  great 
and  a  growing  number  fortifying  themselves  and 
arranging  the  forces  of  argument,  the  vote,  and 
even  of  physical  violence,  for  the  correction  of 

[101] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

such  shocking  immoralities.  Softly,  a  moment, 
however.  Suppose  that  all  men  agree  to  put  the 
right  moral  dispositions  into  the  keeping  of  the 
laws  and  the  customs,  what  would  become  of 
the  greater  part  of  these  conventional  evils  and 
immoralities?  Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
we  keep  the  bad  dispositions,  and  totally  change 
the  laws  and  the  customs.  Doubtless  it  is  possible 
to  make  the  conventional  marriage  tie  the  cover 
and  the  cause  of  immense  suffering  and  even 
wrong-doing.  But  put  the  right  disposition  into 
it,  and  what  would  become  of  the  greater  part  of 
these  evils?  What  would  become  of  much  of  the 
suffering,  and  of  no  small  part  of  the  wrong-doing, 
if  the  "innocent"  party  were  to  do  its  whole 
duty  of  being  thoroughly  well-disposed  toward  the 
"guilty"  one?  On  the  other  hand,  tear  up  the 
old  order,  with  its  absurd  conventionalities,  and 
"go  in"  for  freer  love  and  less  strictly  limited 
divorce;  will  there  be  less  suffering  and  wrong- 
doing accompanying  the  sexual  relation,  —  the 
moral  dispositions  of  men  and  women  remaining 
unchanged? 

A  similar  line  of  continued  reflection  may  well 
enough  serve  to  mitigate  our  complaints  regard- 
ing the  present  ineptness  of  the  appeal  to  law 
and  to  social  custom  for  the  definition  of  every 
doubter's  question:  What  now  is  precisely  my 
duty  under  the  present  solicitations  or  discourage- 
ments? It  may  even  turn  the  mind  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  For  surely  it  is  easier  for  both 

[102] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

workman  and  employer  to  determine  their  duties 
toward  each  other  when  things  are  running  in 
the  "regular  way,"  than  when  either  a  strike  or  a 
lockout  is  contemplated  or  already  declared. 
Surely  it  is  easier  for  the  husband  or  wife,  who 
believes  true  the  current  formulas  for  the  sanctity 
of  the  marriage  bond,  to  work  out  a  scheme  of 
duty-doing,  than  it  would  be  for  the  same  persons, 
with  the  same  good  intentions,  were  everything 
left  to  current  caprice  or  temporary  convictions 
or  emotions.  Surely  it  is  much  simpler  to  calcu- 
late one's  duty  in  a  time  of  domestic  peace  than 
in  a  time  of  rebellion  or  revolution.  To  know 
one's  duty  toward  one's  country  is  much  less 
complicated  in  Great  Britain  or  in  the  United 
States  than  in  China  or  Mexico. 

For  the  person  inspired  and  guided  by  the 
Spirit  of  Duty,  under  existing  political  organiza- 
tions, economic  arrangements,  systems  of  legis- 
lation, and  opinions  and  customs  prevalent  in 
conventionalized  society,  the  choice  between  the 
conflicting  claims  of  his  daily  duties  is,  indeed, 
often  difficult  enough.  At  times,  such  a  choice 
is  insistent  and  compulsory,  but  cannot  be  made 
with  any  confidence  that  it  is  made  exactly  right. 
But  let  prevail  anarchism,  or  socialism,  or  femi- 
nism, or  any  of  the  other  "isms,"  which  propose 
the  destruction  or  sudden  upsetting  of  the  existing 
order,  and  would  such  a  choice  be  made  any  less 
difficult,  or  apt  to  become  disastrous  to  the  moral 
welfare  of  the  individual  or  of  society?  Certainly 

[103] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

not.  For  the  main  guides  to  the  concrete  duties 
of  prudence,  wisdom,  justice,  and  kindness  would 
be  indefinitely  further  removed. 

Among  the  many  discussions  which  have 
occupied  those  interested  in  the  analysis  of  this 
right-honorable  conception  of  duty,  although 
some  are  of  scanty  practical  importance,  there 
are  two  which  deserve  in  this  connection  a  single 
remark.  Is  the  merit  of  doing  duty  increased 
or  lessened  by  its  "going  against  the  grain,"  by 
the  amount  of  disinclination  which  its  doing 
overcomes?  Which  is  the  more  virtuous,  the 
man  who  wants  to  get  drunk  but  does  not,  or  the 
man  who  does  not  drink  because  he  does  not 
want  to;  the  man  who  gives  in  spite  of  his  ten- 
dency to  avarice,  or  the  man  who  gives  because 
he  enjoys  giving?  To  all  such  questions  the 
answer  is  Yes,  or  No,  —  according  to  the  point 
of  view  and  the  particular  character  of  the  virtue 
the  answer  designs  to  emphasize.  In  doing  the 
same  duty  from  the  external  point  of  view,  one 
man  may  be  exercising  more  self-control  in  the 
momentary  triumph  over  appetite  or  desire,  and 
the  other  may  better  deserve  to  be  credited  with 
the  habit  of  prudence  or  of  kindly  generosity. 
Nor  can  we  fail  to  notice  that  there  are  some 
duties  such  that  an  important  part  of  the  vir- 
tuousness  of  doing  them  is  the  duty  of  being  dis- 
inclined toward  doing  them,  of  doing  them  with 
habitual  reluctance,  and  without  the  immoral- 
ity of  the  hardened  heart.  Such  are  all  the 

[104] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

many  duties  that  cause  pain  or  deny  happiness  to 
others.  Moreover,  the  duty  of  moral  contempt, 
moral  scorn,  moral  hatred,  is  always  a  painful 
duty. 

It  is  chiefly  in  ecclesiastical  circles  that  the 
question  has  been  raised:  Can  any  man  do  more 
than  his  whole  duty?  Can  one  acquire  merit 
beyond  that  which  is  one's  due  for  the  doing  of 
what  is  due  to  other  persons?  Again:  the  answer 
is  Yes,  or  No,  —  according  to  the  point  of  view 
and  the  particular  character  of  the  virtue  the 
answer  is  designed  to  emphasize.  To  be  generous 
very  naturally  seems  like  a  virtue  which  exceeds 
the  virtue  of  being  merely  just.  To  be  honest 
according  to  statute  law  seems  to  the  average  busi- 
ness man  of  today  a  quite  sufficient  virtue  in  his 
business  relations;  to  be  honorable  (in  the  some- 
what old-fashioned  meaning)  and  kindly,  as  an 
habitual  form  of  conducting  business,  seems  like 
a  kind  of  superfluity.  But  we  may  reply  that  it 
is  always  one's  duty  to  exercise  justice  in  the  spirit 
of  kindness,  and  to  temper  generosity  with  the 
measure  which  the  virtue  of  justness  affords. 
One's  full  duty  is  not  simply  to  be  courageous, 
but  to  be  wisely  courageous;  nor  simply  to  be 
prudent,  but  to  be  bravely  prudent,  prudently 
brave.  How  to  mix  the  two  —  on  what  occa- 
sions and  in  what  measure  —  that  is  indeed  the 
rub!  To  strive  for  the  result  is  to  have  the  spirit 
of  duty,  and  to  effect  it  is  to  succeed  in  doing 
one's  perfect  duty  —  but  no  more. 

[105] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

In  summing  up  our  thoughts  upon  this  concep- 
tion of  duty,  when  taken  in  its  best  modern  form 
as  a  species  of  debt  always  due  from  each  person 
to  all  other  persons,  we  cannot  do  better  than 
quote  the  closing  words  of  TourguenefFs  Faust: 
"Not  the  fulfilment  of  cherished  dreams  and 
aspirations,  however  lofty  they  may  be  —  the 
fulfilment  of  duty,  that  is  what  must  be  the  care 
of  man.  Without  laying  on  himself  chains,  the 
iron  chains,  of  duty,  he  cannot  reach  without  a 
fall  the  end  of  his  career.  But  in  youth  we  think 
—  the  freer  the  better,  the  farther  one  will  get. 
Youth  may  be  excused  for  thinking  so.  But  it 
is  shameful  to  delude  one's  self  when  the  stern 
face  of  truth  has  looked  one  in  the  eyes  at  last." 

And  yet,  two  things  remain  to  be  said.  It  is 
out  of  dreams  and  aspirations  of  the  lofty  moral 
sort,  rather  than  from  the  calculated  obligation 
of  duty,  that  heroes  and  martyrs  and  men  who 
are  prophets  and  forerunners  of  great  moral  and 
spiritual  uplifts  are  made.  It  is  the  inner  vision 
of  the  perfect  good,  and  the  summons  which  this 
vision  issues,  that  begets  a  spirit  of  daring  and 
self-sacrifice,  in  accordance  with  which  it  is 
impossible,  before  the  issue  has  settled  the  prob- 
lem, to  calculate  the  duties  of  wisdom,  prudence, 
and  the  limits  which  judgment  imposes,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  upon  the  multitude  of 
men.  From  this  we  cannot  argue  that  heroes, 
martyrs,  and  reformers  are  released  from  the 
bonds  imposed  on  all  by  the  Spirit  of  Duty.  We 

[106] 


ON  DOING  ONE'S  DUTY 

can  only  say,  that  sometimes  all  the  ordinary 
estimates  of  what  is  duty  seem  to  fail  the  ques- 
tioning soul.  The  time  seems  to  have  come  to 
commit  the  Self  to  the  impulse  of  this  spirit  in 
us,  without  questioning,  and  in  the  faith  that  it 
is  inspired  by  that  greater  Spirit  which  quickens 
and  commands  the  moral  evolution  of  the  race. 

Out  of  such  thoughts  flows  the  conclusion  that 
there  is  something  yet  more  comprehensive  and 
commanding,  in  the  realm  of  moral  conceptions 
and  in  the  motives  and  rules  for  attaining  the 
most  of  that  which  is  morally  good,  than  can  be 
discovered  and  dislodged  by  the  attempt  simply 
to  answer  the  pressing  practical  questions:  What 
is  it  to  do  one's  duty?  and  How  shall  I  find  out 
what  it  is  my  duty  to  do? 


[107] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FEELING,   "I  CAN";    AND   MORAL 
FREEDOM 

N  contemplating  some  difficult  deed, 
whether  as  presented  in  fact  before  the 
eyes  or  in  the  form  of  an  imaginary 
picture,  there  is  no  feeling  which  more  uniformly 
rises  in  human  breasts  than  that  of  an  apprecia- 
tion of  personal  force,  of  the  ability  "to  do  things." 
The  voluntary  prudence,  wisdom,  courage,  pa- 
tience, or  whatever  form  of  moral  virility,  that 
overcomes  the  difficulty,  excites  the  emotions  of 
moral  approbation  in  a  quiet  way,  if  not  the 
more  ardent  sentiments  of  sesthetical  admiration. 
But  the  spectacle  of  the  failure  on  the  part  of 
any  or  all  of  these  virtues  to  inspire  the  strength 
necessary  to  surmount  great  difficulties  is  visited 
with  feelings  of  pity,  if  not  of  positive  disapproba- 
tion. Ability  to  do  as  right  disposition  directs, 
especially  when  this  ability  is  tested  by  the 
unusual  obstacles  or  customarily  great  opposi- 
tion which  stand  in  the  way,  is  a  possession  of 
real  value.  Lack  of  this  ability,  weakness  of 
will  or  character,  even  if  the  disposition  be  good, 
[108] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

or  at  the  worst,  not  "half-bad,"  is  much  to  be 
deprecated. 

When  the  difficult  deed  is  a  duty  demanding 
to  be  done  by  the  individual  at  once,  or  to  be 
done  on  some  future  occasion,  a  picture  of  which 
the  imagination  is  supporting,  the  feeling  called 
forth  is  that  which  expresses  itself  more  or  less 
confidently  in  the  words  "I  can,"  or  on  the 
contrary,  "I  can  not."  These  words  reveal  an 
emotional  judgment,  or  conviction,  which  is 
appreciative  of  a  greater  or  smaller  degree,  or 
a  quite  complete  lack,  of  the  latent  capacity  to 
overcome  the  opposing  considerations,  and  to 
set  into  the  reality  of  the  deed  an  answer  to  the 
question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  But  now  it  is  a 
question  of  my  ability,  and  of  my  consciousness 
of  my  ability;  for  "I"  am  the  subject  of  the 
verb  "can"  or  the  verb  "cannot";  and  the  appeal 
is  to  my  feeling,  whether  the  answer  be  made  in 
words  that  reach  the  ears  of  others,  or  not. 

What  more  natural,  then,  than  the  inclination 
to  trust  implicitly  this  first-hand  testimony  of 
the  individual's  final  tribunal  of  truth,  —  the 
self-consciousness  of  ability  or  of  impotency  to 
answer  the  call  of  duty  when  this  call  has  clearly 
defined  itself  in  response  to  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do? 

But  the  testimony  of  self-consciousness  itself, 
and  the  evidence  afforded  by  repeated  observa- 
tions of  other  men,  show  two  classes  of  facts  which 
greatly  modify  the  conclusions  that  might  other- 

[109] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

wise  be  derived  from  this  feeling  and  from  the 
words  used  in  giving  it  expression.  These  are, 
first,  that  the  feeling  admits  of  many  degrees,  is 
very  variable  and  unstable,  even  where  it  does 
not  pass  from  one  side  to  the  other;  and,  second, 
that  the  event,  even  where  the  feeling  itself  holds 
out  substantially  unchanged  to  the  end,  often 
proves  how  mistaken  its  answer  has  all  the  time 
actually  been. 

Indeed,  the  very  language  in  which  oftener 
than  not  the  feeling  "I  can"  expresses  itself 
shows  how  vacillating  and  subject  to  degrees  of 
rise  and  fall  it  really  is.  For  when  the  duty  to 
be  done  is  one,  which  for  its  achievement  is  sure 
to  call  on  all  the  resources  of  the  man  morally 
most  strong,  a  wise  forethought  suggests  the 
answer:  "I  do  not  know;  I  can  at  least  try; 
I  will  do  the  best  that  I  can."  In  general  the 
boastful  attitude,  whether  it  be  a  question  of 
physical  or  intellectual  or  moral  ability,  is  not  the 
most  promising  of  real  achievement  in  any  of 
these  three  directions  for  the  exhibition  of  strength. 
In  general  also  —  and  this  fact  is  more  pertinent 
to  our  thought  —  the  feeling,  "I  can,"  fluctuates 
as  the  imagination  depicts  in  more  vivid  or 
increasingly  softened  lights  the  inducements  on 
both  sides,  and  as  the  emotions  sway  back  and 
forth  in  response  to  these  inducements.  To  such 
a  state  of  mind,  if  somewhat  prolonged,  the 
history  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  empire  under 
self-control  would  faithfully  correspond  only  if  it 

[110] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

were  told  in  terms  of  a  struggle  where  the  tide  of 
victory  often  turns,  to  end  at  the  last  in  a  drawn 
battle.  So  often  does  the  doing  of  duty  depend 
upon  what  it  is  customary  to  call  "the  psychologi- 
cal moment/'  —  that  instant  at  which  tempta- 
tion, opportunity,  and  resolution  conspire  in 
such  a  way  as  to  make  the  choice  and  its  sequent 
deed  appear  like  a  purely  mechanical  event. 
All  these  phenomena,  the  importance  of  which 
for  our  theory  of  the  morally  good  and  for  the 
practice  of  genuine  morality  is  so  great,  are 
expressed  and  consecrated  by  language  so  familiar 
that  its  form  does  not  need  to  be  recalled  in  any 
extended  fashion.  "I  know  I  ought,  but  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  can."  "I  guess  I  can,  if  I 
try  hard."  "I  hate  to  'awfully,'  but  I  mean  to 
do  it."  "You  never  can  tell  what  will  happen" 
(that  is,  with  respect  to  human  promises  of  right 
doing,  uttered  or  unexpressed).  Such  are  some 
of  the  many  naive  or  more  conventional  ways  in 
which  the  fluctuations  of  this  feeling  of  ability, 
when  facing  the  picture  of  duty  to  be  done,  is 
accustomed  to  utter  itself. 

But  observation  also  shows  how,  not  infre- 
quently, even  when  the  resolution  is  made  with 
the  most  perfect  confidence  in  the  possession  of 
the  strength  to  carry  it  out,  and  is  maintained 
with  apparently  undiminished  vigor  quite  up  to 
the  moment  when  the  will  is  called  upon  to  put 
the  resolution  into  execution,  strength  gathers  or 
fails,  and  the  promise  of  the  "I  can,"  or  the 

[111] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

warning  of  the  "I  cannot,"  is  disappointed  at 
the  last.  On  the  one  side,  there  are  instances 
of  the  most  carefully  premeditated  crimes,  where 
the  resolution  has  been  steadfastly  set  for  months 
or  even  for  years  in  waiting  for  an  opportunity 
fit  for  the  accomplishment,  and  yet  the  will 
necessary  has  suddenly  given  way  at  the  very 
moment  of  the  realization  of  opportunity.  More 
often,  perhaps,  have  there  been  cases  where  the 
person  who  from  the  best  of  motives  has  "always 
meant  to  do  the  right  thing,"  if  ever  the  right 
time  came,  has  found  its  actual  doing  quite  im- 
possible to  accomplish  under  the  momentary 
but  contemporary  stress  of  indolence,  indiffer- 
ence, or  other  duty-disturbing  emotions.  And 
while  men  base  all  their  daily  intercourse,  in 
every  sort  of  human  relation,  on  calculations 
concerning  what  they  will  themselves,  or  what 
others  will  do,  under  given  sets  of  fairly  well 
calculable  circumstances,  it  is  perfectly  well 
understood  that  none  of  these  calculations  re- 
semble those  with  which  sums  in  mathematics 
are  worked  out,  or  the  prospective  positions  of 
the  planets  at  any  fixed  date  in  the  future.  To 
be  sure,  there  has  been  a  considerable  school  of 
students  of  human  history  (and  some  sad  remnants 
of  this  school  still  remain)  which  has  claimed  to 
discover  laws  "governing"  (whatever  that  always 
ambiguous  phrase  may  mean)  the  conduct  of 
men  in  the  making  of  history,  that  have  all  the 
demonstrable  certainty  and  usefulness  for  pre- 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

diction  which  belong  to  the  most  exact  of  the 
physical  or  chemical  sciences.  But  with  the 
great  majority  of  men  of  common-sense  such 
claims  meet  with  little  acceptance.  "You  can 
never  exactly  tell "  appears  to  this  majority  the 
better  to  express  the  safe  attitude  toward  the 
will  of  the  individual  or  of  the  multitude,  under 
the  bewilderment  of  changed  conditions,  or  the 
pressure  of  added  burdens,  or  the  suddenly  and 
enormously  increased  stresses  of  temptation. 

Such  are,  in  fact,  the  phenomena  that  answer 
to  this  aspect  of  the  moral  problem.  But  the  at 
least  relative  trustworthiness  of  the  feeling  "I 
can"  has  an  important  bearing  on  both  the 
theoretical  and  the  practical  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, What  ought  I  to  do?  And  one's  attitude 
toward  the  debated  propositions  respecting  the 
reality  of  this  feeling,  and  the  dependence  of  the 
essentials  of  morality  upon  the  side  espoused  in 
the  controversies  which  have  raged  for  centuries 
over  the  so-called  "freedom  of  the  will,"  are  of 
no  small  importance  in  practical  morals.  It  is 
quite  impossible  to  regard  this  feeling  as  without 
significance  for  one's  moral  estimate  of  oneself  or 
of  others.  Indeed,  matters  of  profound  social 
import  and  wide-spreading  if  not  quite  universal 
civil  and  political  interest  are  intimately  con- 
cerned in  the  attempt  to  throw  light  on  the  prob- 
lem of  moral  freedom.  When,  then,  even  so  fair 
and  cautious  a  writer  as  the  late  Professor  Sidg- 
wick,  in  his  spirit  of  scholastic  calm  and  measured 

[113] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

way,  undertakes  "to  dispel  any  lingering  doubts 
...  as  to  the  practical  unimportance  of  the 
Free  Will  controversy,"  we  cannot  follow  him 
thus  far,  but  must  dissent  in  the  interests  of 
practical  morality.  For  even  should  it  be  shown 
(although  we  firmly  believe  the  attempt  to  be 
forever  destined  to  failure)  that  the  immediate 
results  of  Determinism  would  not  essentially 
alter  the  working  maxims  of  social  morality,  or 
the  prevailing  customs  of  right  and  wrong  con- 
duct, the  most  important  question  would  remain 
essentially  the  same,  would  be,  indeed,  not  really 
touched  or  even  closely  approached.  For  that 
question  concerns  the  possibility  of  reconciling 
the  theory  of  Determinism  with  the  demands  of 
the  practical  reason,  with  the  rationality  of  moral 
consciousness.  Just  as  the  theory  which  holds 
that  all  knowledge,  in  respect  of  the  conviction 
that  the  mental  representations  in  some  sense 
correspond  to  real  beings  and  actual  occurrences, 
is  mere  illusion,  cannot  fail  to  influence  our 
attitude  toward  science;  just  so  the  loss  of  the 
belief  in  the  trustworthiness  of  the  conviction 
that  moral  imputability  is  rational  and  has  its 
justification  in  the  freedom  of  the  individual 
person,  cannot  fail  to  influence  our  attitude 
toward  the  moral  problem.  Indeed,  the  question, 
"What  ought  I  to  do  ?"  has  a  greatly  diminished 
importance,  if  it  does  not  lose  all  its  most  serious 
import,  for  the  man  who  has  convinced  himself 
that  the  feeling  "I  can"  is  merely  illusory. 
[114] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

It  is,  however,  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
controversy  has  arisen,  and  has  continued  only 
to  ebb  and  flow  but  never  entirely  to  disappear, 
over  the  problem  proposed  under  the  term  "The 
Freedom  of  the  Will."  The  motives  for  this 
controversy  are  in  part  inherent  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  phenomena.  They  are  in  part  also 
of  an  extraneous  character;  and  of  this  part  some 
of  the  individual  factors  have  a  truly  scientific 
value;  but  some  are  of  a  somewhat  sinister  origin. 
These  last  arise  in  the  wish  of  the  wrong-doer,  or 
of  some  of  his  colleagues  (and  to  this  number 
we  all  in  our  time  and  way  belong)  to  apologize 
for  the  wrong-doing  by  a  doctrine  of  its  origin 
which  removes  all  the  reasonableness  from  the 
feelings  of  approbation  and  disapprobation  — 
of  the  strictly  moral  sort  —  and  also  nullifies 
the  feeling  of  merit  or  its  opposite  (of  moral  well- 
desert  or  ill-desert). 

A  dispassionate  scientific  examination  justifies 
the  reality  of  this  feeling  of  ability,  —  but  not 
in  the  way,  or  to  the  degree,  which  is  often  claimed 
by  the  advocates,  or  controverted  by  the  oppo- 
nents, of  the  doctrine  of  the  freedom  of  the  will. 
The  emotions  and  convictions  in  which,  rather 
than  in  the  form  of  an  indubitable  and  infallible 
self-consciousness,  this  phase  of  moral  feeling 
reveals  itself,  are  indeed,  as  has  already  been 
admitted,  not  infrequently  of  a  doubtful  and 
inconstant  character.  The  old-fashioned,  philo- 
sophical, or  theological  argument,  that  every  man 

[115] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

knows  by  immediate  self-knowledge  his  posses- 
sion of  a  free-will,  cannot  be  maintained  in  con- 
sistency with  the  science  of  human  experience. 
Indeed,  we  may  say  that  in  this  way  no  one 
knows  what  he  really  is  or  what  he  can  do  or  can- 
not do.  All  this,  every  human  being,  so  far  as 
he  knows  it  at  all,  knows  only  imperfectly  through 
a  growing,  a  constantly  shifting,  and  often  dis- 
appointing life-history.  We  do  not  look  in  on 
our  souls,  much  less  do  we  look  in  on  the  souls  of 
others,  and  see  there  enthroned  a  so-called  free- 
will, which  is  fit  to  be  accused  of,  even  if  it  does 
not  audibly  and  positively  claim,  the  responsi- 
bility, because  it  has  the  ability,  of  bringing  to 
pass  this  or  that  piece  of  conduct. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  arguments  on  which  all 
forms  of  theological  or  philosophical  Fatalism 
and  of  so-called  scientific  Determinism  are  based, 
when  examined  in  the  light  of  the  facts  of  moral 
consciousness  and  the  experience  of  the  race  in 
moral  development,  appear  even  more  abstract, 
scholastic,  and  inconclusive.  These  arguments 
do  not  recognize  the  limitations  to  all  rational 
attempts  at  explanation  in  respect  to  their  own 
attempts  to  explain;  but  neither  do  they  really 
explain  what  they  profess  to  explain.  We  must 
then  go  back  to  the  facts  of  feeling  —  for  they 
are  chiefly  such  —  in  which  this  problem  of 
ethical  problems  has  its  obscure  origin.  We  shall 
not  find  in  them  an  a  priori  demonstration  of  a 
theory  of  Freedom  of  the  Will;  but  we  shall  find 

[116] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

the   basis   in    experience   for   a   reasonable   and 
practical  claim  to  moral  freedom. 

About  the  existence  and  influence  upon  conduct 
of  the  feelings  which  are  expressed  in  the  declara- 
tions, "I  can,"  or  "I  cannot,"  there  is  little  room 
for  doubt.  They  are  familiar  to  every  normal 
human  adult;  they  are  the  habitual  accompani- 
ment of  every  deed,  whether  considered  from  the 
moral  points  of  view  or  not,  if  it  is  for  any  reason 
made  the  subject  even  of  momentary  deliberation. 
Let  us  take  the  case  of  the  athlete  as  he  stands, 
pole  in  hand,  before  the  bar  which  has  just  been 
set  so  that  he  may  "beat  the  record"  for  the 
standing  high- jump.  His  trainer  or  his  own 
inner  voice  is  whispering  the  question  "can  you 
do  it,  or  can  you  not?"  And  he  is  responding  to 
his  trainer  or  to  himself,  either  "I  surely  can," 
or  "I  think  or  hope  I  can,"  or  "I  am  afraid  that 
I  cannot."  The  answer  is  framed  to  accord  with 
a  certain  measure  of  his  ability  that  is  set  in  the 
form  of  the  memory  of  what  he  has  done  or  failed 
to  do  in  the  past;  —  but  this  is  not  all:  he  has  a 
feeling  of  confidence  or  of  shrinking  before  the 
imagination  which  suggests  a  limit  of  strength 
and  skill  that  may  be  drawn  from  the  as  yet 
unexhausted,  and  never  yet  quite  measured 
resources  lying  hidden  in  the  mysterious  depths 
of  the  Self.  Perhaps  he  may  do  better  than  he 
has  ever  done  before.  He  is  sure  he  can;  he 
thinks  or  hopes  he  may;  he  fears  or  knows  that 
he  cannot. 

[117] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

Now  this  feeling  of  ability  which  we  have  just 
described  may  be  considered  as  almost  or  quite 
exclusively  a  nervo-muscular  affair.  It  can  be- 
come realized  in  the  deed  only  if  the  habitual 
training  of  the  nervous  and  muscular  systems  has 
given  them  the  purely  physiological  ability  to 
respond  to  the  demands,  so  to  speak,  which  are 
made  upon  them  by  the  willing  mind.  This, 
then,  may  be  a  case  where,  literally,  the  "spirit  is 
willing  but  the  flesh  is  weak";  if  so,  no  sort  of 
blame  attaches  itself  to  the  spirit  of  the  will  to 
execute  the  deed. 

But  let  us  add  another  element  to  the  various 
shades  of  the  feeling  which  are  expressed  by  the 
words  "I  can"  (or  its  opposite,  in  any  of  the 
various  intermediate  varieties  of  coloring  to 
which  all  such  feeling  is  subject  as  a  matter  of 
course).  The  honor  of  the  contestant's  college 
or  club  is  at  stake;  others,  as  the  phrase  is,  "are 
banking  on  him."  His  doing  his  very  best, 
especially  if  it  can  be  something  better  than  he 
has  ever  done  before,  is  now  a  matter  of  obliga- 
tion to  others,  —  though  laid  upon  him,  it  may 
well  be,  in  a  somewhat  morally  dubious  way. 
But  however  laid  upon  him,  it  has  a  certain 
potent  bearing  on  the  mental  attitude  with  which 
the  proposed  deed  is  contemplated.  He  may  suc- 
ceed, or  he  may  fail;  but  whatever  the  event 
may  be,  he  is  bound  in  honor  to  do  his  very  best. 
And  the  sense  of  honor  as  an  obligation  issues 
a  most  appealing  summons  to  those  latent  po- 

[118] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

tencies  which  lie  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  Self, 
but  which  that  same  conscious  Self  now  determines 
to  call  forth  and  put  the  full  measure  of  them 
into  the  contemplated  end. 

Writers  on  morals,  and  men  generally  in  their 
practice  as  regarded  from  the  point  of  view  of 
morality,  have  been  accustomed  to  play  fast  and 
loose  with  this  sense  of  honor.  On  the  one  hand, 
they  have  raised  it  to  the  dominant  power,  the 
final  court  of  appeal  in  determining  the  good  and 
the  bad  of  conduct  and  of  character.  On  the 
other  hand,  they  have  denied  it  all  moral  signifi- 
cance; or  have  even  denounced  it  as  the  devil's 
own  way  of  twisting  and  corrupting  the  most 
fundamental  principles  of  morality.  But  the 
sense  of  honor  properly  so-called  is  always  a 
form  of  moral  obligation.  It  becomes  the  instru- 
ment of  moral  evil  only  when  attached  to  deeds 
and  courses  of  conduct,  in  a  conventional  and 
hypocritical  way,  that  are  the  very  opposite  of 
those  virtues  which  the  prevailing  sense  of  honor 
ought  to  espouse  and  to  practise.  But  we  are 
now  noting  the  fillip  which  this  feeling  gives  to 
the  feeling  of  ability;  and  not  only  this,  but  to 
the  actual  forth-putting  of  ability.  Many  a  man 
has  done  what  he  never  could  have  done,  what 
he  scarcely  dared  to  imagine  he  could  do,  under 
the  incitement  of  this  stimulus  from  the  sense 
of  being  bound  in  honor. 

But  for  the  man  who  has  answered  the  question, 
What  ought  I  to  do?  by  making  once  for  all  the 

[119] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

spirit  of  duty-doing  his  most  powerful  motive,  the 
way  to  draw  on  the  reserves  of  moral  personality 
is,  of  all  men,  in  the  most  hopeful  condition.  His 
first  inquiry  is  this:  What  precisely  is  my  duty? 
His  second  inquiry  follows:  How  and  when  shall 
I  set  about  doing  my  duty?  In  attempting  to 
answer  the  first,  he  invokes  all  his  past  experi- 
ence in  the  making  of  moral  judgments;  he 
summons  all  the  unused  resources  of  making  wise 
judgments,  in  order  to  meet  the  special  difficulties 
of  each  particular  case.  And  if  he  has  walked 
long  in  the  morally  right  way,  so  far  as  this  right 
way  in  the  past  has  been  made  clear  to  him,  he 
has  good  store  of  habits  and  large  experience  of 
consequences  to  help  in  the  decision  of  the 
question,  What  am  I  in  duty  bound  to  do? 

But  suppose  that  the  moral  athlete  or  the 
moral  weakling,  or  just  the  average  man  who  is 
apt  to  be  neither,  now  stands  face  to  face  with 
the  doing  of  the  duty,  already  knowing  or  feeling 
fairly  confident  what  that  duty  is.  Even  the 
athlete  will  not  always  and  infallibly  feel  sure  of 
his  "I  can."  The  weakling  and  the  average 
man  are  sure  very  frequently  to  be  in  a  state  of 
"doubtful  ability,"  whether  they  are  aware  of 
the  fact,  or  not.  Of  the  habitually  good  man 
the  community  somewhat  confidently  expects 
that  he  will  be  able  to  do  what  he  feels  hi  duty 
bound  to  do;  he  himself  is  modestly  but  sincerely 
confident  that  his  ability  can  be  made  to  measure 
up  to  the  demands  which  are  likely  to  be  made 

[120] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN5' 

upon  it.  He  knows,  however,  that  not  infre- 
quently good  men  have  sadly  disappointed  others 
and  bitterly  disappointed  themselves  in  this  re- 
gard. Neither  the  community  nor  the  man  him- 
self will  expect  with  much  confidence  that  the 
weakling  will  break  his  long-time  habit  of  shirking 
or  violating  the  injunctions  of  conscience.  It  is, 
indeed,  still  possible  even  with  him,  that  he  may 
do  so;  not  a  few  men  in  the  aggregate  have, 
in  a  single  instance,  broken  suddenly  with  the 
power  of  evil  habits;  not  a  few  have  turned,  as 
if  in  obedience  to  a  heavenly  vision,  all  at  once 
from  darkness  to  the  light.  As  to  the  average 
man,  the  one  who  knows  himself  and  allows  him- 
self to  be  sometimes  on  the  right  side  and  some- 
times on  the  wrong;  the  public  openly,  and  he, 
perhaps  secretly,  believes  that  the  result  in  his 
case  will  be  chiefly  determined  by  the  weight  of 
the  inducements  bearing  toward  the  one  hand  or 
the  other.  To  say  this,  is  not  to  divide  all  men 
into  sheep  and  goats,  into  the  wholly  good  and 
pretty  considerably  bad;  it  is  only  to  suggest 
the  various  ways  in  which  men  do  actually  dis- 
tinguish themselves  in  respect  of  the  reciprocal 
reactions  of  the  feelings,  "I  can"  and  "I  ought." 
But  there  is  one  more  important  aspect  of  this 
feeling  of  moral  ability  which  must  be  looked 
frankly  in  the  face.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
sense  of  honor,  and  the  tinge  of  moral  responsi- 
bility which  it  imparts  to  the  emotions  and  con- 
victions of  the  athlete  as  he  stands  ready  to  draw 

[121] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

on  all  the  powers  which  lie,  habitually  or  in  a 
latent  way,  under  his  control,  there  is  a  certain 
resolution  which  he  knows  that  he  ought  to  make, 
and  which  he  knows  that  he  can  make.  He  may 
not  be  able  to  say,  with  assurance,  I  can;  but  he 
can  say,  with  assurance,  I  will  try. 

It  is  the  general  opinion  that  he  who  does  his 
very  best,  and  yet  fails,  unless  he  has  through 
negligence  or  self-indulgence  also  failed  to  be 
just  then  at  his  very  best,  is,  in  this  particular 
instance,  not  to  blame.  It  is  necessary  to  make 
this  statement  with  all  its  accompanying  reserva- 
tions, otherwise  it  would  not  correspond  with 
the  facts.  Evil  habits  are  laid  up  against  men, 
—  not  only  as  handicaps  which  nature  imposes 
on  them  in  a  purely  mechanical  way,  but  also  as 
features  of  moral  obliquity  attaching  themselves 
to  the  personality,  which  never  cease  to  be  re- 
garded as  such  until  the  will  of  that  particular 
person  asserts  itself  by  throwing  them  off.  And 
if  these  handicaps  are  made  the  heavier  by  some 
wrong-doing  perpetrated  when  the  call  to  over- 
come in  the  interests  of  honor  or  of  duty  was  full 
near  the  time  of  its  issue;  then  too,  the  moral 
consciousness  thinks  itself  justified  in  imputing 
blame  to  the  individual  person  for  this  particular 
failure. 

Suppose  once  more,  that  our  athlete,  as  he 
stands  face-to-face  with  his  difficult  but  as  yet 
unperformed  task,  is  tempted  to  retreat,  or  not 
to  call  forth  all  his  reserve  resources  for  its  accom- 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

plishment,  —  by  fear  or  by  some  form  of  bribery 
offered  by  the  "backers"  of  the  other  side.  The 
deed  of  will  which  is  to  realize  what  there  is  of 
the  justifiable  feeling  of  being  able  for  its  accom- 
plishment may  be  "thrown  into  the  melting 
pot,"  as  it  were.  A  conflict  of  motives  arises 
which  now  threatens,  now  allures,  the  feeling  of 
ability  in  opposite  directions.  The  sense  of  honor 
pulls  in  one  direction,  the  emotion  of  cowardice 
in  the  other.  The  call  of  duty  summons  here; 
the  solicitations  of  avarice  say,  "Go  there." 
The  character  and  intensity  of  this  conflict  will 
—  there  can  be  no  doubt  —  depend  to  a  large 
extent  on  the  inherited  and  acquired  character  of 
the  soul  in  which  the  conflict  takes  place,  and  on 
the  intensity  of  the  desires  and  other  motive  or 
deterrent  emotions  between  which  the  conflict 
takes  place.  What  now  has  become  for  the  time 
being  of  the  conviction  which  answers  to  the 
typical  avowal,  "I  can"?  It  remains,  —  sub- 
stantially unimpaired,  but  with  modified  intensity 
and  in  altered  form.  For,  when  regarded  in  its 
essential  characteristic:  The  feeling  is  not  simply 
"/  can"  if  the  inducement  is  sufficient;  but  I  am  able 
in  a  measure  to  decide  whether  the  inducement  shall 
be  sufficient,  or  not.  And  this  uncovers  the  psy- 
chological fallacy  which  is  most  superficial  with 
all  the  current  forms  of  Determinism:  they 
regard  choices  as  determined  by  motives,  in  the 
same  way  in  which  motives  are  determined  by 
physiological  and  physical  causes,  and  both  after 

[123] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  pattern  of  the  causal  relation  maintaining 
itself  in  the  case  of  the  phenomena  of  external 
nature;  whereas  it  is  equally,  and  even  more 
significantly  true  that  motives  are  determined 
by  choices,  and  that  the  ability  to  make  choice 
of  motives  belongs  to  the  essential  features  of  the 
mysterious  life  of  a  Self.  I  can  make  my  own 
motives.  Or,  —  more  concretely  said,  —  within 
certain  limits  which  it  always  remains  quite 
impossible  definitely  to  fix,  I  can  choose  between 
and  among  motives;  I  can  give  the  preference 
of  fixed  attention  to  one  motive  rather  than  to 
another;  I  can  consider  their  weight  in  a  scale 
which  does  not  measure  values  simply  by  their 
gross  intensity  or  the  amounts  of  pleasure  which 
they  promise;  I  can  listen  to  the  voice  which 
says  "You  ought  this"  and  "You  ought  not 
that";  I  can  summon  my  reserves  to  decide  for 
the  morally  right  in  the  conflict  that  goes  on 
within  the  waiting  soul;  I  can,  in  a  word,  be 
a  person  whose  doing  is  something  more  than 
mere  action;  whose  action  is  conduct,  with  all 
the  profound  moral  significance  which  properly 
belongs  to  this  term. 

That  this  ability  of  the  moral  sort  is  limited 
and  is  always  a  matter  of  development,  we  have 
no  disposition  to  deny.  Indeed,  all  human  lan- 
guage emphasizes  its  restrictions;  all  human  ex- 
perience reveals  the  fact  and  some  of  the  laws 
of  its  develoj)nient.  No  son  of  man  is  born  with 
the  feeling  "I  can";  no  human  infant  is  able  to 

[124] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

choose  what  it  will,  though  it  has  a  sort  of  amoe- 
boid "will  of  its  own."  Nor  are  the  children  of 
men  endowed  with  an  equal  inheritance  of  reserves 
which  may  be  called  upon  when  they  are  needed 
to  make  the  Self  strong  against  temptation;  nor 
are  all  able  under  equally  favorable  circumstances 
to  develop  and  successfully  exploit  such  reserves. 
Selves  are  not  all  alike  in  their  moral  possibilities, 
any  more  than  they  are  in  their  physical  char- 
acteristics. On  the  contrary,  not  a  few,  but  the 
great  majority,  are  handicapped  in  the  former  by 
deficiencies  in  the  latter  forms  of  inheritance. 
But  what  —  alas !  —  is  even  more  obvious,  with 
countless  multitudes  the  environment  is  such  as 
to  restrict  greatly,  as  almost  to  annihilate  their 
ability  for  the  cultivation  of  some  of  the  most 
fundamental  virtues  of  the  moral  life. 

Into  the  attempt  to  interpret  the  feeling,  "I 
can,"  and  to  understand  the  better  its  relation  to 
the  feeling,  "I  ought,"  there  must  enter  as  one 
of  its  most  important  and  constant  factors  the 
entire  psychological  and  ethical  doctrine  of  habit. 
Deeds  good  and  bad,  and  the  ability  to  do  them, 
and  the  responsibility  for  having  done  them,  are 
all  intimately  and  inextricably  involved  in  the 
doctrine  of  habit.  The  measure  of  the  present 
ability  to  do  or  to  refrain  from  doing  depends  on 
the  way  ability  has  been  exercised  in  the  past. 
Practice  in  any  particular  virtue  generally,  but 
not  invariably,  increases  the  ease  with  which  that 
same  virtue  is  accomplished,  and  the  strength 

[125] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

with  which  the  temptation  to  turn  to  its  opposite 
is  resisted.  So  well  known  is  all  this,  in  its  stricter 
application  to  the  doing  of  right  and  wrong,  that 
little  more  need  be  said  in  this  connection  about 
the  matter.  But  this  general  truth  cannot  be 
too  often  reiterated,  too  strongly  emphasized,  — 
familiar  and  homely  truth  as  it  seems  to  be: 
The  laws  of  habit  are  essential  to  the  reality  (and 
even  to  the  conception)  of  any  true  personal  develop- 
ment Without  them  the  past  could  not  be  fixed 
in  forms  to  admit  of  any  continuity  of  growth; 
and  continuity  of  growth  is  essential  to  the  pro- 
duction of  that  individuality,  the  highest  con- 
ceivable type  of  which  is  the  individual  person. 
The  development  of  self-control  is  essential  to 
this  kind  of  individuality. 

Some  such  description  as  has  been  given  of 
the  phenomena  which  constitute  and  accompany 
the  feeling,  I  can,  undoubtedly  corresponds  to  the 
facts  of  life.  The  facts  are  so  universal,  and 
they  so  persistently  and  emphatically  demand 
interpretation  at  their  face  value,  that  they  can 
neither  themselves  be  pronounced  "illusory,"  nor 
can  any  argument  derived  from  other  classes 
of  phenomena  overthrow  the  conclusions  which 
the  moral  consciousness  of  mankind  has  from 
time  immemorial  derived  from  them. 

There  are  other  forms  of  moral  feeling  and 
judgment  which,  both  in  time  and  logically, 
follow  the  feelings  of  obligation  and  of  ability, 
and  which  effectually  corroborate  them  both. 

[126] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

We  have  already  referred  to  the  feeling  of  appro- 
bation (and  its  opposite)  and  to  the  feeling  of 
merit  or  well-desert  (and  its  opposite).  To  that 
phase  of  moral  judgment,  which  as  initial  fact  of 
feeling  and  rational  assumption  underlies  and 
justifies  the  placing  of  responsibility  and  the 
awarding  of  merit,  the  theologians  have  given  the 
title  "imputability."  As  modern  ethics  interpret 
the  term  it  must  mean:  There  is  no  doing  of 
right  or  doing  of  wrong  which  does  not  belong  to 
somebody;  and  in  its  sane  and  unmystical  view, 
"somebody"  always  means  some  particular  body. 
There  is  no  bad  deed  done,  but  some  person  has 
done  badly.  There  is  no  good  deed  done,  but 
the  doing  is  the  merit  of  the  person  who  did 
that  very  deed.  There  is  no  sin  committed  but 
some  sinner  must  in  truth  say:  That  particular 
sin,  whatever  the  stress  of  temptation  from 
others  or  my  partnership  in  its  committal  with 
others,  —  that  particular  sin  was  my  very  own. 
Even  the  Zulus  have  the  proverb:  "When  a 
fish  is  killed  its  own  tail  is  inserted  in  its  own 
mouth." 

It  is  true  that  wherever  the  conception  of  per- 
sonality becomes  blurred,  the  so-called  doctrine 
of  imputability  becomes  distorted  as  though  seen 
through  blurred  eyes.  In  fact,  also,  the  close- 
ness with  which  the  deed  imputed  fits  the  person 
to  whom  it  is  imputed  depends  on  the  degree  to 
which  his  personal  development  has  attained. 
Children  are  not  "imputable"  as  adults  are. 

[127] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

The  highly  developed  Self  is  more  responsible 
than  is  the  human  being  who  has  scarcely  ac- 
quired enough  development  to  be  called  a  Self. 
Thus  the  Thlinkeet  Indians,  if  they  cannot  catch 
the  actual  doer  of  a  crime,  kill  one  of  his  family 
or  tribe  instead.  According  to  the  native  Samoan 
law  a  plaintiff  might  seek  redress  for  the  murder 
of  one  of  his  own  relations  "from  the  brother, 
son,  or  other  relative  of  the  guilty  party."  Among 
the  natives  of  Australia  when  a  crime  was  com- 
mitted, and  especially  if  the  culprit  escaped,  only 
persons  unconnected  with  the  family  believed 
themselves  to  be  safe,  until  some  one  had  expiated 
the  crime.  Confucius  made  it  a  duty  for  a  son 
to  slay  his  father's  murderer,  just  as  the  Mosaic 
law  insisted  on  a  strictly  retaliatory  penalty  for 
bloodshed.  But  these  aberrations  of  justice,  as 
to  who  should  bear  and  who  should  inflict  the 
penalty  for  wrong-doing,  do  not  disprove  but 
only  illustrate  the  firmness  of  men's  belief  that 
the  "I  ought"  implies  the  "I  can";  that  personal 
responsibility  is  justified  on  rational  grounds  by 
the  facts  of  personal  ability.  Like  the  theological 
dogma  which  laid  a  basis  for  the  justice  of  punish- 
ment in  the  transmission  to  his  descendants  of 
the  guilt  of  Adam,  they  are  due,  the  rather,  to 
prejudiced  and  false,  and  even  absurd  conceptions 
of  what  it  is  to  be  fully  A  Person. 

It  is  upon  such  experiences  of  the  conscious- 
ness, "I  can,"  that  the  relations  of  men  in  the 
family,  in  economic  and  commercial  intercourse, 

[128] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

in  the  state,  and  in  all  social  organization,  are 
founded  and  conducted.  Men  act  under  motives, 
but  are  not  strictly  determined  by  motives; 
they  are  "creatures  of  habit,"  but  they  make 
their  habits  and  are  responsible  in  a  measure  for 
them.  They  are  not  of  strict  necessity  the  slaves 
of  habit,  so  long  at  least  as  they  remain  with  the 
power  of  a  choice  which  may  at  any  time  summon 
from  the  secret  storehouse  of  the  Self  resources 
hitherto  unrevealed  and  even  unsuspected.  And 
to  be  possessed  of  such  resources  is  of  the  very 
nature  of  a  real  person,  a  developed  Self.  Such 
is  the  popular,  and  also  the  reasoned  view. 

Similar  opinions  and  convictions  have  been 
given  logical  expression  and  defended  in  the 
form  of  elaborate  arguments,  by  theologians  and 
philosophers,  under  the  title  of  the  doctrine  of 
the  Freedom  of  the  Will.  But  the  term  itself  is 
not  well  chosen.  For  it  seems  to  imply  some 
separable  faculty,  which  may  be  looked  on  as 
dominating  the  other  faculties  so-called,  taking 
them  in  charge  and  "bringing  them  to  the  heel," 
or  not,  before  another  faculty  called  "conscience." 
Such  a  representation,  whether  intentionally  and 
virtually  or  in  appearance  only,  violates,  on  the 
one  hand,  the  unity  of  the  mind,  or  rather  of 
the  Self;  and  on  the  other  hand,  it  minimizes  the 
interdependence  in  their  co-operation  of  all  the 
various  elements  of  this  mental  unity.  For 
the  will,  then,  let  us  substitute  Personality  in  its 
active  aspect;  and  for  Freedom  of  the  will,  the 

[129] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

acceptance  of  the  mysterious  but  indubitable 
and  infinitely  precious  fact,  that  the  individual 
may,  in  spite  of  limitations  and  counter  induce- 
ments, through  self-discipline  in  forming  habits 
of  right  choice,  develop  that  freedom  of  personal 
life  which  consists  in  the  progressive  realization 
of  the  moral  ideals.  [This  sentence  is  indeed 
rather  elaborate  and  includes  a  number  of  debata- 
ble and  difficult  thoughts.  But  it  is  worth,  in 
part  at  least,  the  trouble  of  the  analysis  which 
its  understanding  seems  to  demand.] 

Even  such  a  doctrine  of  moral  freedom  as  that 
which  we  have  just  attempted  to  expound,  with 
the  eye  always  directed  on  the  practical  value 
which  it  may  have  in  helping  to  answer  the 
question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  will  doubtless  find 
itself  disputed  from  several  sides,  and  rejected 
by  not  a  few  minds.  These  objections  cannot 
all  be  raised,  much  less  answered  in  detail,  in  this 
connection.1  They  are,  indeed,  for  the  most 
part  rather  purely  academic  and  are  probably  of 
not  nearly  so  much  effect  on  the  practice  of 
morality  as  is  ordinarily  supposed.  But  a  brief 
criticism  of  some  of  the  most  common  and  seem- 
ingly most  convincing  appears  to  be  demanded  in 
order  to  clear  the  way  for  the  instructions  which 

1  For  a  more  elaborate  treatment  of  this  difficult  subject  from 
different  points  of  view,  see  the  other  works  of  the  author:  "Elements 
of  Physiological  Psychology"  (revised  edition),  pp.  645,  664f.;  "Psy- 
chology, Descriptive  and  Explanatory,"  chap,  xxvi;  "  Philosophy  of 
Conduct,"  chap,  viii;  "Philosophy  of  Religion,"  I,  334f.,  601f.;  II, 
342f.,  344f. 

[130] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

the  truth  of  the  consciousness,  "I  can,"  has  to 
teach  to  the  honest  inquirer  into  his  duty,  whether 
as  respects  a  long  course  of  conduct,  or  some 
particular  deed. 

The  pseudo-aTgwmenis  against  moral  freedom, 
which  consist  in  mere  assertions,  may  be  answered 
by  counter  assertions.  Such,  for  example,  are  the 
declarations  of  Riehl:  "Determinism  is  the  real 
ground  of  Morality";  of  Hoffding:  "Psychology, 
like  every  other  science,  must  be  deterministic  "  ; 
of  M.  Luys,  who  regards  all  psychoses,  including 
volitions  and  choices,  as  determined  by  the  brain, 
which  dictates  them  to  the  conscious  mind  by  a 
kind  of  incomprehensible  jugglery.  To  these 
and  all  similar  facile  solutions  of  the  mystery  of 
personality  we  may  respond  with  even  greater 
confidence  by  contrary  assertions.  Thus:  "De- 
terminism undermines  the  ground  of  Morality"; 
"Psychology  has  absolutely  no  right  to  make  any 
such  assumption,  and  the  assumption  squarely 
contradicts  some  of  the  most  incontrovertible 
facts  of  Psychology";  and  so  far  as  we  know 
anything  about  the  relations  of  nervous  changes 
in  the  brain  and  the  phenomena  of  consciousness, 
"M.  Luys'  figure  of  speech  is  little  less  than 
absurd." 

The  old-fashioned  deterministic  theory  relied 
on  the  universality  of  the  causal  principle  as  in- 
terpreted in  figures  of  speech  derived  quite  purely 
from  a  superficial  view  of  physical  phenomena. 
Here  was  incontrovertible  a  priori  proof  that 

[131] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

choices  and  deeds  of  will,  like  all  other  classes  of 
events,  must  be  completely  explained  by  pre- 
existing events  regarded  as  their  causes.  Desires, 
passions,  and  other  forms  of  emotion  were 
regarded  as  motives  which  under  the  laws  of 
habit  acted  in  a  dynamic  way  upon  the  will.  By 
their  intensity  they  overcame  opposing  motives; 
or  by  the  suddenness  of  their  attack  they  took 
the  will  off-guard,  and  so  succeeded  in  forcing  the 
illusion  of  choice  in  the  direction  of  the  line  of 
least  resistance,  as  it  were.  As  this  application 
of  the  causal  law  became  more  suffused  with  the 
discoveries  of  modern  psycho-physical  science,  it 
took  the  form  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made  in  the  declaration  of  M.  Luys.  The 
real  chain  of  causal  sequences,  the  purely  mechani- 
cal train  of  events,  was  assumed  to  take  place  in 
the  nervous  substance,  especially  in  the  cerebral 
areas;  and  thus  the  sequences  of  mental  states 
do  not  cause  one  another  any  more  than  do  the 
successive  puffs  of  steam  from  the  locomotive; 
it  is  the  steam  in  the  boiler,  under  the  successive 
changes  in  pressure,  which  is  the  real  cause  of 
each  puff,  and  of  the  order  in  which  the  puffs 
follow  one  another.  Never  did  theory  make  more 
unjustifiable  use  of  inept  and  stupid  figures  of 
speech. 

Now  any  consideration  of  the  bearing  of  the 
causal  law,  and  of  the  doctrine  of  the  distribution 
between  and  among  a  number  of  events  of  the 
forces  latent  or  kinetic,  upon  the  phenomena  of 

[132] 


THE  FEELING:    "I  CAN" 

morals,  demands  a  thorough  metaphysical  criti- 
cism of  the  conceptions  involved;  such  are  the 
conceptions  of  "cause,"  "law,"  "exertion,"  "dis- 
tribution "or  "influence,"  of  different  amounts  of 
so-called  "energy"  or  "force."  Two  remarks 
must  suffice.  All  these  conceptions,  and  especially 
those  of  the  latency,  the  becoming  kinetic,  the 
application,  and  the  distribution,  of  energy  or 
force,  have  their  origin  in  this  same  experience 
which  we  express  by  the  "I  can"  or  "I  cannot." 
It  is  the  experience  of  a  limited  ability  belonging 
to  the  hidden  resources  of  the  Self,  —  of  an  "I 
can,"  which  holds  true,  however,  only  under 
certain  circumstances,  and  under  certain  relations 
with  other  beings  than  ourselves.  In  a  word,  if 
we  did  not  have  this  experience  with  ourselves  as 
wills,  and  therefore  as  sources  of  power,  we  should 
have  no  conception  of  energy  and  no  law  of 
causation  to  discuss  or  to  employ. 

Still  further:  Even  in  our  application  of  the 
conception  of  cause  and  effect  to  material  things 
and  physical  events,  we  are  always  compelled 
to  recognize  a  certain  inexplicable  residuum,  so 
to  say,  which  we  ascribe  to  the  nature  of  the 
things  themselves.  All  we  know  about  the 
actual  working  in  the  world  outside,  of  this  so- 
called  principle  of  causality,  and  of  the  so-called 
laws  according  to  which  the  principle  does  its 
work,  amounts  only  to  this.  We  discover  by 
observation  and  experiment  that  things  behave 
toward  other  things,  and  elements  of  things 

[133] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

toward  other  elements  of  the  same  things,  in 
more  or  less  uniform  ways,  in  dependence  upon 
the  relations  existing  between  them;  but  also 
always  as  partly  determined  by  what  we  call  the 
"nature"  of  the  things  and  of  the  elements  them- 
selves. When  we  are  asked  to  define  precisely 
what  we  mean  by  this  word  "nature"  as  applied 
to  any  particular  thing,  we  can  only  refer  in 
explanation  to  the  observed  or  inferred  behavior 
of  that  same  thing.  And  so  our  explanation 
moves  round  in  a  circle  out  of  which  it  can  never 
be  chased  or  climb  by  its  own  inherent  skill  and 
strength.  It  is  like  the  time-honored  description 
of  the  real  reason  "Why  dogs  delight  to  bark  and 
bite."  Oxygen  and  hydrogen  combine  to  make 
the  (previous  to  experience)  totally  unexpected 
and  unpredictable  compound,  water.  We  explain 
by  enumerating  the  quantities  of  each  that  enter 
into  the  combination,  and  the  circumstances  of 
temperature,  pressure,  etc.  But  still,  Why? 
Why  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  rather  than  carbon 
and  nitrogen?  Because  of  differences  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  all  four.  But  what  do  we  know 
about  the  real  nature  of  any  of  these  four?  We 
know  nothing,  and  can  never  know  anything, 
beyond  what  we  find  out  as  to  the  way  in  which, 
under  an  ever  increasing  variety  of  circumstances 
and  relations,  they  actually  behave.  And  the 
more  we  know  of  this  sort,  the  more  resourceful 
becomes  the  mysterious,  "quality -packed,"  and 
inexhaustible  nature  of  the  thing  itself.  Increas- 
[134] 


THE  FEELING:  "I  CAN" 

ing  explanations  increase  the  mystery  of  the 
unexplained. 

It  is  no  unmeaning  figure  of  speech,  then,  when 
we  declare  that  every  thing,  and  every  element 
of  every  thing,  from  the  star  Sirius  to  the  ion, 
from  the  vibrations  of  ether  we  call  light  to  the 
emanations  —  if  emanations  they  are  —  which 
we  call  Gamma  rays,  is  in  some  real  sort  a  being 
with  an  incalculable  fund  of  ^//-determination. 
In  a  special  way  this  is  true  of  all  living  beings  and 
living  elements  of  living  beings.  As  said  the 
English  physiologist  Foster:  "Every  amoeba 
has  a  will  of  its  own."  Its  determination  is  not 
wholly  from  the  outside.  The  more  we  know 
of  every  species  of  bacteria  and  of  every  living 
cell,  the  more  startling  appear  the  performances 
which  compel  this  conclusion.  But  the  phe- 
nomena of  ^//-determination  are  essential  to  the 
very  being  of  a  Self.  They  are  the  characteristic 
experiences  that,  quite  as  much  as  any  other,  help  us 
to  recognize  the  existence  of  a  person,  and  to  mark 
and  understand  the  development  of  personal  life. 

There  is  one  other  way  of  controverting  a 
reasonable  doctrine  of  moral  freedom  to  which  a 
brief  reference  is  due.  In  this  form  of  Determin- 
ism the  argument  is  that  the  individual  cannot 
have  moral  freedom,  because  there  are  statistics 
to  show  that  the  multitudes  of  individuals  fre- 
quently act  alike  under  like  influences.  We  will 
make  this  reference  by  quoting  a  somewhat 
lengthy  passage  from  the  "Philosophy  of  Con- 

[135] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

duct"  (p.  180f.).  "To  every  such  argument  may 
be  opposed  the  undoubted  facts  that  the  validity 
of  the  statistics  themselves  is  usually  exceedingly 
questionable;  that  the  interpretation  of  the 
statistics  is  generally  doubtful;  and  that  other 
classes  of  statistics  very  severely  test,  if  they  do 
not  wholly  controvert,  this  form  of  the  deter- 
ministic hypothesis.  For  example,  if  the  number 
of  illegitimate  births  in  some  district  of  Southern 
Europe  suddenly  suffers  a  great  diminution,  in 
close  connection  with  the  revival  of  well-paid 
employment  for  the  female  operatives  in  its  silk 
mills,  this  does  not  prove  that  Maria  or  Angelica 
has  been  compelled  or  determined  to  become 
virtuous  thereby,  or  even  that  she  and  her  com- 
panion have  really  become  more  virtuous.  Prob- 
ably, it  simply  shows  that  a  larger  number  of 
couples  are  now  financially  able  to  comply  with 
the  legal  restrictions  which  the  State  has  unfor- 
tunately imposed  upon  marriage.  But  the  virtue 
or  the  vice  of  sexual  intercourse  is  not  wholly,  or 
even  chiefly,  determined  by  statute.  Maria  and 
Angelica,  in  that  eternal  conflict  in  which  we  are 
all  placed  between  our  moral  ideals  and  our  lower 
impulses  and  inferior  interests,  may  choose  accord- 
ing to  their  best  light  to  be  either  good  or  bad, 
quite  irrespective  of  the  conditions  of  the  silk 
market.  Doubtless  for  them  as  for  us  all,  the 
external  conditions  and  internal  excitement,  but 
above  all  the  habitual  past  choices,  will  make 
goodness,  or  badness,  much  easier  or  much  harder 
[136] 


THE  FEELING:   "I  CAN" 

in  any  particular  case.  But  for  either  of  these 
two  souls,  as  for  millions  of  others,  there  may 
come  a  moment  in  prayer,  or  reflection,  or  memory, 
when  the  worth  of  the  moral  ideal  will  be  so 
revealed  as  to  let  it  assert  its  more  legitimate 
influence.  Then  the  conscious  self-determining 
Self  will  have  its  best  chance  to  assert  and  to 
establish  its  right  to  a  higher  and  more  effective 
form  of  moral  freedom.  For  sudden  reforms 
and  complete  religious  conversions  are,  after  all, 
not  such  rare  and  isolated  phenomena  in  human 
society.  And  they  constitute  hard  facts  for  any 
theory  of  Determinism  that  wishes  to  plant  itself 
upon  purely  empirical  grounds." 

"Let  it  be  admitted,  however,  that  good  deeds 
and  bad  deeds,  virtues  and  crimes,  tend  to  go  in 
groups.  This  is  only  to  reenforce  a  truth  neces- 
sary to  be  taken  account  of  by  every  attempt  at  a 
philosophy  of  conduct.  Certainly  men  are  influ- 
enced in  their  behavior  as  individuals  by  the 
social  conditions  under  which  they  exist  and 
develop.  The  obviously  criminal  population  is 
always  largely  made  up  of  a  class  that,  on  account 
of  discouraging  environment,  relatively  great  sus- 
ceptibility to  impulsive  considerations,  and  a 
low  degree  of  intelligence,  has,  on  the  average,  a 
less  degree  of  moral  freedom.  Moral  freedom  is 
always,  indeed,  a  matter  of  degrees.  The  theory 
of  morals,  as  well  as  the  practice  of  enlightened 
men,  takes  all  this  into  account.  We  expect 
that  the  final  judgment  and  the  ideally  perfect 

[137] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

judge  will  not  fail  to  authenticate  this  truth. 
But  especially  in  the  most  enlightened  and 
civilized  nations  there  are  not  a  few  who  have 
fallen  down  from  the  higher  into  the  lower  stratum; 
and  some  come  up  from  the  lower,  in  spite  of  all 
their  burdens  and  temptations,  into  strata  that 
lie  far  above.  But  falls  and  reforms  and  risings, 
in  the  ethical  scale,  are  significant  of  the  same 
portentous  fact;  the  character  and  destiny  of 
the  individual  are  not  all  strictly  determined 
irrespective  of  the  self-determination  of  the  con- 
scious, rational,  and  ethically-constituted  Self." 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  message  which  comes 
from  the  consciousness,  "I  can,"  to  the  one  who 
asks  eagerly  and  persistently  the  question,  "What 
ought  I  to  do?"  is  a  message  of  courage  and 
good  cheer  rather  than  discouragement  or  despair. 
The  latent  possibility  of  winning  moral  freedom 
is  an  essential  characteristic  of  all  personal  life. 
But  that  possibility  must  be  realized  by  the 
formation  of  habits  of  right  conduct  under  the 
impulse  of  the  feeling,  "I  ought,"  and  the  guidance 
of  the  judgment  as  to  what  I  ought;  and  with 
the  view  of  progressively  reaching  the  moral  ideal. 

What  then  ought  one  to  do,  out  of  respect  for 
this  endowment  of  a  chance  to  win  the  priceless 
good  of  moral  freedom?  One  ought,  once  for 
all,  to  choose  this  good  as  the  goal  of  all  endeavor. 
And  one  ought  to  cultivate  the  habits  that  lead 
toward  it  to  the  extremest  limits  of  one's  resources 
in  self-determination. 

[138] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WEIGHT  AND   WORTH  OF  MORAL 
IDEALS 

[EN  adult  judgment  witnesses  a  deed 
that  appears  on  the  surface  to  be  of 
moral  import,  it  is  apt  promptly  to 
pronounce  it  either  good  or  bad,  even  though  it 
may  have  been  the  expression  of  the  psycho- 
physical  mechanism,  or  of  animal  instinct,  or 
of  some  pretty  nearly  blind  impulse.  In  such 
cases  it  sees  moral  quality  in  the  deed  rather  than 
in  the  idea;  for  the  intellectual  attitude  appro- 
priate to  the  right  disposition  may  have  been 
entirely  wanting.  Thus  we  say  "good"  or  "fine" 
to  the  action  of  the  unthinking  child,  when  this 
action  appears  to  spring  from  indignation  at 
cruelty  and  injustice,  or  from  pity  at  the  suffering 
of  his  playmate  or  pet  animal,  or  from  the  quite 
thoughtless  outburst  of  generosity  which  leads 
to  the  sharing  of  his  sweets  with  others.  Nor  is 
all  this  feeling  of  approbation,  and  the  judgment 
which  affirms  it,  to  be  wholly  denied  moral 
significance. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  action  is  repulsive 
to  moral  feeling,  the  judgment  appropriate  to  this 

[139] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

repulsion  is  accorded  to  the  deed  with  almost 
equal  promptness  and  urgency;  although  the  deed 
itself,  in  this  case  too,  may  be  the  expression 
of  a  quite  thoughtless  and  "unintentioned,"  if 
not  unintentional,  impulse.  Thoughtless  cruelty, 
or  indifference  to  the  suffering  of  others,  or  gross 
selfishness,  is  disapproved  by  refined  and  thought- 
ful moral  judgment,  It  is  condemned  not  simply 
as  "bad  form,"  or  as  foreboding  bad  character  in 
the  future;  but  also  as  being  a  piece  of  bad 
conduct.  In  the  latter  case,  however,  if  the 
judgment  be  well  refined  and  suffused  with  the 
results  of  reflection  upon  the  essentials  of  morality, 
the  condemnation  is  sure  to  be  modified  by  the 
lack  of  intention  which  characterized  the  deed. 
We  excuse  the  childish  culprit  by  some  such 
saying  as  this:  "He  had  no  idea  what  he  was 
doing";  or  "He  did  not  mean  any  harm." 

Now,  in  order  that  this  excuse  itself  may  not 
be  condemned  as  immorally  thoughtless,  it  must 
imply  that  the  doer  of  the  wrong  deed  could  not 
have  "had  any  idea"  of  the  moral  import  of  his 
action,  because  his  intellect  was  not  enough 
developed  to  frame  moral  conceptions  and  to 
reason  about  matters  of  conduct.  He  is  excused 
for  lack  of  the  full  morality  which  requires  that 
the  mind  as  well  as  the  impulse  be  put  into  the 
deed;  that  is,  on  account  of  his  lack  of  developed 
judgment.  And  if  the  development  really  at- 
tained is  abreast  of  that  of  the  average  human 
being  of  the  same  age,  under  similar  influences  of 

[140] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

environment  and  inheritance,  the  excuse  for  the 
badness  of  the  conduct  is  esteemed  to  be  as  nearly 
complete  as  any  excuse  can  be.  We  extend  it 
still  further  to  cover  the  case  of  the  human  idiot, 
or  of  the  child  not  up  to  the  average,  defective, 
or  not  quite  compos  mentis. 

It  is  a  sort  of  indirect  or  "left-handed"  compli- 
ment to  the  good-heartedness  of  human  nature 
in  general,  that  men  are  not  equally  ready  to 
apply  this  rule  of  moral  judgment  the  other  way. 
We  are  readier  to  withhold  blame  from  the  thought- 
less bad  deed,  than  praise  from  the  thoughtless 
good  deed.  It  would  seem  unwarrantably  cool, 
if  not  criminally  cynical,  toward  the  really  good 
thing  that  a  good  deed  always  is,  if  we  were  too 
eager  to  say  of  the  average  man,  or  of  the  child, 
or  even  of  the  defective  or  idiot:  "He  deserves 
no  praise,  for  he  had  no  idea  what  he  was  doing." 
We  considerately  dimmish  the  condemnation, 
when  we  are  convinced  that  the  wrong-doer 
lacked  the  capacity  for  knowledge;  —  whether  of 
the  value  of  the  impulse  from  which  the  bad  deed 
arose,  or  of  the  badness  of  the  deed,  or  of  the 
consequences  in  the  deterioration  of  his  own 
personality,  or  in  the  increase  of  suffering  and 
shame  for  others.  On  the  other  hand,  we  kindly 
refuse  to  withhold,  or  we  in  appearance  refrain 
from  withholding  the  full  meed  of  approval,  when 
the  same  reason  ought  to  work  the  other  way. 

This  failure  to  make  the  rule  work  equally  well 
both  ways  has  just  been  attributed  to  the  un- 

[141] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

drawn  "milk  of  human  kindness."  But  the 
explanation  can  be  only  partial.  By  putting 
ourselves  as  much  as  possible  into  the  attitude 
of  the  severe  impartial  judge,  we  cannot  succeed 
in  preventing  the  scales  from  tipping  in  favor  of 
a  somewhat  unequal  judgment  of  thoughtless 
deeds,  both  bad  and  good.  Good  impulses  have 
the  reward  of  approving  judgment;  —  not  only 
because  such  judgment  gives  pleasure  to  him 
who  passes  it,  but  also  because  such  impulses 
give  promise  of  the  development  of  a  full-orbed 
moral  life,  when  they  are  embodied  in  the  wise 
and  consistent  intellect  which  experience  imparts, 
and  are  directed  toward  the  ends  which  fix  the 
ideals  of  the  morally  perfect  personality.  But 
bad  impulses  are  in  some  measure  excused;  — 
not  because  they  fail  to  arouse  judgments  which 
are  in  themselves  unpleasant,  but  because  they 
by  no  means  indicate  a  moral  condition  without 
abundant  reason  for  good  hope.  In  fact,  the 
very  impulses  which  express  themselves  in  these 
unthinking  bad  deeds  are  in  general  important 
and  forceful  sources  of  good  deeds,  when  they  have 
received  the  guidance  of  wise  and  consistent 
judgment,  and  have  been  directed  toward  the 
realization  of  the  right  ideals.  In  a  word,  there 
is  no  human  impulse  that  good  will  may  or  may 
not  employ  in  good  deeds. 

These  and  all  similar  phenomena  may  serve  to 
convince  us  that  without  the  work  of  intellect  in 
forming  conceptions,  judgments,  and  ideas  of 

[142] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

value  (or  ideals),  there  is  no  such  attainment  as 
moral  development  or  even  as  morality  in  the 
fuller  meaning  of  the  term.  Without  that  higher 
equipment  for  ideality  which  goes  beyond  the 
merely  animal  intelligence,  and  which  we  call 
"human  reason,"  conduct  as  a  moral  affair,  in 
distinction  from  the  psycho-physical  and  mental 
mechanism  involved  in  mere  action,  could  not 
exist.  The  truly  moral  person  must  have  capacity 
for  ideation  of  the  higher  sort.  He  must  develop 
ideas  of  Time,  of  Self,  and  of  Causal  Relations, 
which  far  outstrip  the  possibilities  of  develop- 
ment open  to  the  lower  animals.  But  above  all 
must  he  become  able  to  frame  and  to  appreciate 
"ideas  of  value"  properly  so-called.  In  a  word: 
Morality  requires  a  rational  Mind. 

In  his  greater  work  on  Ethics  the  philosopher 
Aristotle  makes  a  division  of  human  "  excellencies  " 
into  the  "intellectual"  and  the  "moral."  One 
of  his  modern  commentators  declares  that  he 
then  founded  a  distinction  which  has  lasted  ever 
since.  There  is  such  a  distinction;  but  we  cannot 
run  it  through  the  virtues  or  employ  it  to  sep- 
arate the  intellectual  man  from  the  moral  man 
as  though  they  belonged  to  different  types  of 
humanity. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  argue  on  metaphysical 
grounds,  and  at  length,  to  show  that  without  a 
sufficient  development  of  the  so-called  categories 
or  intuitions  which  in  man's  case  give  him  a 
Time-consciousness,  a  Self-consciousness,  and  a 

[143] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

right  to  apply  the  ideas  of  Cause  and  Effect  to 
the  explanation  of  his  experience,  he  could  not  be 
the  moral  person  that  he  actually  is.  Consider 
for  a  moment,  however,  the  work  of  the  human 
imagination  in  conceiving  the  picture  of  a  personal 
life,  extending,  with  its  consciousness  of  responsi- 
bility for  what  it  has  done,  through  years,  and 
even  through  aeons  of  time;  in  some  sort  the 
same  Self,  although  undergoing  a  constant  process 
of  change  and  of  development;  with  its  deeds 
imputable  and  linked  together  in  some  kind  of 
sequence  as  causes  and  effects.  It  is  not  philoso- 
phers, or  the  few  devoted  to  the  abstract  specula- 
tions of  a  scholastic  metaphysics  alone,  that  have 
this  marvellous  power  of  imagination.  In  the 
meanings  wjiich  the  lowest  human  savages  give 
to  the  conceptions  of  Time,  Self,  and  Causality, 
there  is  no  animal  that  bears  any  comparison 
worthy  of  establishing  a  common  ethical  standard. 
When  the  Bechuana  chief  said  to  the  African 
missionary  Casalis,  "One  event  is  the  son  of 
another,  and  we  must  never  forget  the  parentage," 
he  made  use  of  a  figure  of  speech  to  hold  a  truth, 
the  metaphysical  import  of  which  far  transcends 
all  merely  animal  intelligences.  What  trained 
horse  or  dog  or  anthropoid  ape  could  picture  a 
future  Tartarus  or  Elysium,  people  it  with  invisi- 
ble gods  whose  attitude  toward  human  conduct 
remains  unchanged  long  after  men  have  forgotten 
their  own  past;  and  thus  minister  to  the  belief 
that  the  consequences  of  conduct,  and  the  rewards 
[144] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

of  merit  or  demerit,  remain  unaffected  by  the 
everlastingness  of  an  imagined  heaven  or  an 
imagined  hell? 

When  considering  some  of  the  earlier  stages  in 
the  growth  of  the  feeling  of  responsibility  we 
were  led  to  notice  that  the  individual's  judg- 
ments of  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  conduct  are 
at  first  almost  completely  determined  by  the 
preexisting  judgments  of  those  constituting  his 
social  environment.  The  result  is  that  the  new- 
comer into  this  environment  feels  in  duty  bound 
to  conform  to  the  prevailing  customs.  When 
he  asserts  his  individuality  in  an  impulsive  way, 
he  is  whipped  into  line,  not  by  the  stings  of  his 
own  conscience  so  much  as  by  the  smart  of  the 
lash  wielded  in  the  name  of  the  public  conscience. 
Were  this  the  end  of  the  process  of  forming  moral 
judgments,  no  individual  could  attain  a  truly 
adult  morality.  But  there  are  few  individuals 
indeed  who  do  not  become  to  some  extent,  and 
to  some  purpose,  either  good  or  bad  critics  of  the 
prevailing  customs.  Some  of  the  judgments  these 
customs  embody  cease  to  be  according  to  the 
individual's  ideas  of  what  is  right  or  wrong; 
they  fall,  perhaps,  as  judged  by  maturing  judg- 
ment, far  short  of  the  individual's  ideals,  of  his 
ideas  of  what  ought  to  be,  but  now  is  not.  Hence 
arise  the  outcries  of  the  would-be  reformers  of 
custom,  like  that  of  Laotsu:  "Nowadays  we 
despise  love  of  humanity  and  are  insolent;  we 
despise  economy  and  are  wasteful;  we  despise 

[145] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

modesty,  and  try  to  surpass  every  one  else. 
These  ways  lead  to  death." 

It  makes  not  the  slightest  difference  with  our 
contention,  whether  things  are  better  now  than 
they  were  or  worse  than  they  were;  whether  the 
times  are  improving  from  the  moral  point  of 
view,  or  are  running  rapidly  along  on  the  down- 
hill track.  The  point  is  this:  Changed  ideas  are 
controverting  and  breaking  down  the  customs 
which  embody  the  moral  judgments  made  by 
previous  generations;  they  are  altering  the  more 
obvious  and  express  social  virtues  or  social  vices 
into  which  our  ancestors  had  fallen.  In  the 
midst  of  all  these  changes  of  ideas,  however,  and 
of  the  opinions  and  practices  to  which  they  give 
quick  or  more  or  less  tardy  birth,  there  are 
three  characteristics  which  stick  fast  to  the  judg- 
ments. Moral  judgments  have  only  one  sort  of 
subject,  conduct,  and  one  sort  of  predicate,  right 
(or  its  opposite,  not-right  or  wrong).  Thinking 
is  either  logical  or  illogical;  speech  is  correct  or 
incorrect;  judgment  itself  is  either  true  or  false; 
but  conduct  is  either  right  or  wrong.  And, 
second,  Moral  judgment  is  properly  tinged  with 
moral  emotion;  it  should  be  sound  and  thought- 
ful, but  it  does  not  profit  by  prettiness  of  literary 
dressing  or  coolness  of  scientific  precision.  Third, 
Moral  judgment  establishes  a  claim  on  the  will. 
In  general,  one  must  do  something  with  moral 
judgments.  If  you  make  them  and  trust  them 
for  true,  you  must  live  by  them.  They  are  not 

[146] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

like  calculations  as  to  the  strength  or  cost  of 
material  necessary  to  make  a  projected  bridge  to 
the  other  side  of  the  river;  they  are  themselves 
the  bridge  on  which  you  must  choose  whether  to 
cross,  or  to  take  the  responsibility  of  refusing  to 
cross,  when  you  come  to  the  river. 

That  moral  ideas  and  moral  judgments,  together 
with  the  prevalent  customs  which  embody  and 
enforce  them,  have  (at  least,  over  a  considerable 
portion  of  civilized  mankind)  been  rising  to 
higher  standards  of  ideal  excellence  and  of  effi- 
ciency in  promoting  human  welfare,  there  is 
considerable  historical  evidence  to  show. 
Whether  the  average  individual  is  any  more 
essentially  moral,  or  any  more  happy  on  account 
of  a  real  improvement  in  social  morality,  are 
other  questions  more  difficult  to  answer.  How 
much,  if  at  all,  the  moral  ideals  have  themselves 
essentially  changed  is  still  another  question, 
about  which  we  shall  have  something  to  say  at 
another  time.  The  principal  causes  of  this  ad- 
vance toward  certain  ideals  of  moral  excellence 
seem  to  us  to  be,  chiefly,  the  following  four. 

Those  who  would  reduce  all  moral  problems 
to  economic  problems,  and  all  improvement  in 
morality  (or,  the  rather,  in  morals,  in  the  more 
limited  meaning  of  the  word)  to  improvement  in 
economic  conditions,  have  certainly  something 
to  be  said  on  their  side;  —  and  this,  in  spite  of 
their  pretty  nearly  complete  misapprehension  as 
to  the  essential  nature  of  morality  when  viewed 

[147] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

from  the  psychological  point  of  view,  and  their 
quite  inexcusable  disregard  of  the  spiritual  and 
"other-worldly"  nature  of  some  of  the  most 
inalienable  and  powerful  of  the  moral  ideals.  A 
reference  back  to  what  was  said  about  the  way 
in  which  those  relations  of  human  beings  that 
define  the  different  classes  of  duties  are  them- 
selves affected  by  economic  changes  might  suf- 
fice to  illustrate  this  claim.  For  example:  The 
relations  of  the  sexes  inside  and  out  of  the  life  of 
the  family  are  profoundly  altered  by  economic 
influences.  The  family  life  prevailing  over  most 
of  Europe  and  of  North  America  at  the  present 
time  is  based  upon  monogamic  marriage,  of  a 
kind  where  the  woman  is  dependent  upon  the 
man  economically,  and  the  man  dependent  upon 
the  woman  for  a  home  and  for  children  that 
he  can  call  his  own.  It  is  exceedingly  unlikely 
that  this  economic  relation  can  be  greatly 
changed  and  preserve  what  the  communities 
who  have  cherished  and  developed  it  have 
regarded  as  the  safe  and  right  moral  relations 
of  the  sexes. 

Another  potent  cause  of  changes  in  ideas 
and  customs  regulating  or  prescribing  the  right 
and  wrong  of  conduct  has  been  the  breaking-up 
and  mixing  of  classes,  and  the  increased  intercourse 
of  different  races  with  one  another  for  purposes  of 
trade,  or  education,  or  menial  and  professional 
employment;  or  for  the  benefits  of  travel  or  change 
of  residence.  No  longer  can  an  Aristotle  write 

[148] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

of  ethics  in  a  profound  and  comprehensive  way, 
and  yet  exclude  one  class  of  human  beings  from 
all  application  of  the  ethical  categories  on  the 
ground  that  the  slave  is  not,  in  the  full  sense  of 
the  word,  a  person.  No  longer  can  one  say  with- 
out arousing  a  shudder  of  moral  horror:  "For 
there  is  nothing  in  common  between  master  and 
slave.  The  slave  is  a  living  tool;  the  tool  is  a 
lifeless  slave."  To  be  sure,  Aristotle  mitigates 
our  shudder,  for  he  immediately  adds:  "As  a 
slave,  his  master's  relations  with  him  do  not 
admit  of  friendship,  but  as  a  man  they  may." 
But  it  is  just  this  conception  of  the  value  "of 
being  a  man,"  in  whatever  other  relation  the  in- 
dividual may  be  placed  toward  other  men,  which 
is  altering  so  profoundly  a  great  multitude  of  the 
subordinate  conceptions  as  to  the  right  and 
wrong  of  conduct,  that  depend  on  the  character 
of  this  idea. 

The  most  important  work  of  moral  enlighten- 
ment and  moral  reform  at  present  open  to  this 
line  of  influences  is  the  correction  and  dissipation 
of  race  prejudices.  This  form  of  prejudice  sorely 
needs  the  light  thrown  upon  it  which  shall  render 
it  as  intellectually  despicable  as  it  is  morally 
degrading.  Of  all  the  social  crimes  that  are 
most  multitudinous  and  most  distressing,  the 
worst  are  those  committed  by  the  strong  nations 
against  the  so-called  "inferior  races."  Nor  are 
these  crimes  rendered  any  less  intellectually 
despicable  when  they  are  countenanced  by  a 

[149] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

pseudo-science  of  ethnology,  and  a  hypocritical 
claim  to  an  effort  at  "benevolent  assimilation." 

A  third  potent  cause  for  the  modification  of 
ethical  ideas  and  judgments  about  the  right  and 
wrong  of  conduct  is  to  be  found  in  the  changes 
in  legislation  or  in  those  subtle  commands  that 
are  issued  by  the  prevailing  opinions  anent  matters 
of  morals.  The  law  may  originate  in  ignorance, 
or  be  motived  by  greed,  or  subtly  designed  to 
serve  the  interests  of  dishonesty;  but  whether 
approved  or  despised  by  the  conscience  of  the 
multitude  or  of  the  "good  few,"  and  whether 
somewhat  scrupulously  kept  or  quickly  allowed 
to  become  dead  letter,  as  law,  it  has  no  small  or 
negligible  influence.  One  must,  perhaps,  lower 
the  standard  of  moral  consciousness  to  obey  it, 
or  stiffen  up  the  moral  sense  to  justify  one  to 
disobey.  In  either  case,  one's  moral  constitu- 
tion is,  at  least  to  some  extent,  altered  in  no 
unimportant  way.  In  scarcely  less  potent  degree 
is  the  point  of  fixation  of  some  long-cherished 
moral  judgment  modified,  or  the  smooth  running 
of  some  previously  determined  habit  of  action 
interrupted,  when  the  environment  of  current 
opinion  upon  questions  of  daily  duty-doing  be- 
comes changed.  The  man  who  has  his  own 
ideas  about  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  conduct, 
and  who  is  ready  at  any  cost  to  stand  by  them, 
is  not  properly  indifferent  to  these  changes  in 
current  opinion.  He  should  know  them  in  order 
that  he  may  the  better  know  what,  under  the 

[150] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

changed  conditions  of  others'  views  on  things  of 
moral  import,  it  is  still  his  duty  to  do.  He  was 
brought  up  to  think  dancing  or  the  theatre  wrong; 
the  opinion  of  the  majority  has  changed;  shall 
he  change  both  opinion  and  practice?  His  grand- 
father, the  parson,  used  to  take  his  toddy  with 
the  deacon,  of  a  Saturday  night,  as  a  needed 
"brace"  for  the  "effort"  of  the  morrow;  and 
when  he  was  installed,  the  bill  for  wine  or  New 
England  rum  was  the  principal  item  in  the  ex- 
penses. Changed  opinions  have  enforced  changed 
customs.  Shall  the  grandson  take  his  whiskey, 
even  if  ordered  by  the  doctor,  "on  the  sly,"  and 
omit  even  wine,  when  he  is  dining  a  company  of 
intimate  friends? 

The  open  criticism,  secret  contempt,  and 
flagrant  disregard  of  existing  laws  and  prevalent 
customs  and  opinions  in  matters  of  truly  moral 
concernment,  are  themselves  phenomena  of  the 
most  portentous  significance.  This  is  not  simply 
because  of  the  danger  to  the  present  constitution 
of  the  state  and  of  society  which  the  multitude 
who  have  taken  these  attitudes  toward  it  would 
seem  to  imply.  Where  the  active,  living  moral 
consciousness  of  the  people,  the  feelings  and  ideas 
and  judgments  of  large  numbers  of  the  individuals 
who  constitute  the  state  or  the  social  whole,  are  in 
advance  of  this  constitution,  great  changes  in  the 
latter  are  sure  to  come.  It  is  better  that  these 
changes  should  come,  in  spite  of  the  temporary 
suffering  and  even  injustice  which  any  consid- 

[151] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

erable  change  may  involve.  But  how  intrinsi- 
cally grand  is  this  power  of  public  self-criticism  in 
the  light  of  new  ideas  and  of  higher  ideals!  How 
godlike  is  that  capacity  for  it,  which  belongs  to 
that  one  of  the  animals  alone,  who  is  not  mere 
animal,  but  is  also  a  person!  To  lift  up  ideas 
into  a  purer  and  more  invigorating  atmosphere; 
to  clarify  and  energize  ideals  in  the  interests  of 
better  practical  standards  of  conduct;  to  initiate 
improved  estimates  of  the  moral  character  of 
deeds  and  of  men;  —  surely  to  achieve  such  re- 
sults is  to  establish  a  title  to  descent  from  the 
Spirit  of  all  Righteousness,  and  good  hope  of 
ascent  to  a  share  in  the  Kingdom  of  Righteousness 
which  this  Spirit  is  pledged  to  found  and  to 
sustain.  As  said  Rothe:  "He  who  does  not 
unconditionally  believe  in  the  Might  of  Goodness 
in  the  world  and  in  its  final  victory,  he  can  no 
longer  lead  in  human  affairs  —  I  do  not  say 
rightly,  but  even  with  lasting  success." 

And  this  brings  us  to  a  fourth  source  of  chang- 
ing moral  ideas  and  judgments,  and  of  improved 
and  more  vital  and  efficient  moral  ideals.  This 
source  is  to  be  found  in  the  spirit  and  the  teach- 
ings of  the  few  leaders  of  the  race  in  the  theory 
and  practice  of  morality.  We  agree  with  Wundt 
in  the  opinion:  "Man  has  always  had  the  same 
kind  of  moral  endowment."  So,  too,  as  it  seems 
to  us,  man  has  always  had  essentially  the  same 
intellectual  endowment.  Neither  in  science  nor 
in  morality  has  any  essentially  new  factor  or 

[152] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

capacity  been  added  by  evolution  to  the  human 
species.  In  both,  his  improvements  are  the 
enjoyment  of  the  products  of  those  countless  past 
generations  whose  "natural  gifts"  were  essen- 
tially the  same  as  his  own  at  the  present  day. 
But  there  have  been  men  of  extraordinary  talents, 
and  there  have  been  a  few  great  geniuses,  in  both 
science  and  morality.  There  have  been  a  few 
whose  insight  into  moral  values,  whose  grasp 
upon  moral  principles,  whose  vision  of  the  ulti- 
mate moral  ideals,  has  far  transcended  the  average 
of  the  men  of  their  own  time.  There  have  been 
a  very  few  who,  in  all  these  respects,  have  been 
the  leaders,  teachers,  and  inspirers  of  their  fellow 
men  in  all  times.  What  the  present  moral  status 
of  the  world  —  what  its  judgments,  ideas,  and 
cherished  ideals,  concerning  conduct,  public  policy, 
and  the  secret  workings  of  the  mind  of  the  multi- 
tude —  would  have  been  without  the  powerful 
influence  of  these  few,  no  one  may  confidently 
venture  to  predict.  To  trace  the  streams  of 
living  waters  which  have  flowed  from  their  per- 
sonality makes  ridiculous  the  mechanical  theory 
of  human  history. 

It  is  noticeable  in  this  connection  that  of  these 
greatest  men  in  the  dominion  of  the  moral  spirit, 
the  majority  have  been  founders  of  religion  and 
teachers  of  religious  truth  as  well.  The  names 
of  Confucius,  of  Sakya-Muni,  but  above  all  of 
Jesus,  arise  at  once  in  our  minds.  This  fact 
suggests  subjects  for  comment  as  to  the  relations, 

[153] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

in  various  ways,  between  what  we  call  morality 
and  what  we  call  religion,  —  however  we  make 
our  distinctions  between  the  two.  Such  a  sub- 
ject demands  some  separate  and  more  detailed 
treatment  in  another  place. 

But  the  ideas  of  ethics  are  not  mere  ideas,  or 
mental  images  of  real  things  and  actual  occur- 
rences, revived  in  memory  and  reconstructed  with 
an  attempt  at  scientific  precision  by  an  act  of  the 
imagination.  These  ideas  are,  the  rather,  of  the 
sort  which  artists  construct;  for,  indeed,  moral 
consciousness  is  given  to  dreaming,  has  no  little 
of  sesthetical  quality,  and  tends  to  evoke  many 
pictures  of  things  the  exact  likeness  of  which  is 
not  to  be  found  "on  sea  or  land"  or  in  any  existing 
civic  or  social  construction.  This  kind  of  work 
on  the  part  of  moral  consciousness  is  no  modern 
affair,  or  rare  gift  belonging  to  the  most  highly 
civilized  or  gifted  races.  It  belongs  to  the  human 
race,  to  the  personal  species,  to  man  as  a  spirit 
and  an  artist  of  creative  talent  in  matters  of  the 
spirit.  And  it  is  an  historical  fact  of  supreme 
significance  that,  even  in  the  lowest  stages  of 
human  development  and  among  the  most  un- 
civilized and  savage  tribes,  in  matters  of  conduct 
and  character  a  distinction  is  always  recognized 
between  what  in  fact  is,  and  the  idea  or  ideal  of 
what  ought  to  be.  This  is  to  say  that,  strictly 
speaking,  moral  ideas  are  ideas  of  value.  The 
feeling  of  moral  obligation  is  a  binding  to  some- 
thing which  has  a  worth  of  its  own.  The  reason 

[154] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

for  this  estimate  of  worth  may,  indeed,  lie  outside 
of  the  act  to  which  the  feeling  is  directed;  but 
this  reason  carries  with  it  the  weight  of  an  obliga- 
tion only  as  it  has  connection  with  something 
which  possesses  a  worth  of  its  own  —  intrinsic 
moral  worth. 

All  the  different  forms  of  disposition,  and  the 
deeds  and  courses  of  conduct  to  which  they  give 
rise,  share  in  this  quality  of  intrinsic  worth. 
They  all  embody  and  express  ideas  that  have 
value.  They  are  the  virtues  or  qualities  of  man- 
hood which  the  man  who  is  "true  to  the  pattern" 
ought  to  have.  They  make  up  the  separate 
items  in  the  total  weight,  the  absolute  values,  of 
the  ideal  personal  life.  Courage  is  the  right  idea 
of  a  man,  in  one  aspect  of  his  manifold  nature 
and  various  relations  to  his  fellow  men.  Perfect 
courage  in  all  relations  and  under  all  circumstances 
is  one  of  the  ideals  which  has  its  own  worth  in 
estimating  moral  issues,  its  own  weight  in  making 
up  the  balance  of  moral  character.  Justice  is 
another  such  idea;  perfect  justice,  its  correspond- 
ing ideal.  Thus  each  virtue  has  its  own  idea  and 
its  own  special  weight  and  worth  as  a  moral  ideal. 
Even  when  they  are  out  of  place,  so  to  say,  or 
are  exhibited  in  exaggerated  form,  if  they  are 
intrinsically  genuine,  we  give  each  virtue  the 
weight  and  the  worth  which  belong  to  all  forms 
of  the  morally  ideal.  Hence  the  popular  admira- 
tion —  to  v/hich  we  cannot  deny  moral  quality  — 
for  the  "dying-game"  of  the  murderer,  for  the 

[155] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

generosity  of  the  corrupt  politician,  for  the  honor 
among  thieves.  Only  the  courage,  the  generosity, 
the  honor,  must  be  the  genuine,  virtuous  thing 
which  it  seems;  it  must  not  be  mere  bravado,  or 
the  love  of  display,  or  a  shrewd  form  of  cowardly 
selfishness. 

In  the  large,  no  other  form  of  influence  has 
contributed  so  much  to  the  uplift  of  the  race  as 
the  moral  ideals  of  the  morally  gifted  and  ethically 
strong  members  of  the  race,  —  of  the  men 

"Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle, 
Who  mean  the  thing  they  say." 

This  influence  has  been  perhaps  even  greater 
through  example  than  through  doctrine  or  pre- 
cept. Still  we  cannot  deny  all  credit  to  those  of 
the  second  and  third  rank  who  have  reflected  long 
and  patiently  upon  moral  problems  and  have  put 
into  words  the  truths  they  have  found  by  reflec- 
tion for  the  benefit  of  their  fellow  men.  To 
study  them  as  examples,  to  heed  their  doctrine, 
and  to  adopt  their  practice,  affords,  therefore,  in 
part  an  answer  to  the  problem  of  the  man  who  is 
continually  asking  the  leading  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  At  the  same  time,  the  shaping  of 
one's  own  ideals,  and  the  estimate  of  the  conduct 
and  character  of  others  according  to  ideal  stand- 
ards, requires  great  moderation  and  an  unsparing 
culture  of  good  sense.  For,  each  person,  since  he 
is  a  person,  has  the  right  and  is  under  the  obliga- 
tion to  choose  and  to  hold  a  somewhat  special 
[156] 


WORTH  OF  MORAL  IDEALS 

moral  ideal  which  he  will  aim  to  attain  as  his  very 
awn.  To  be  the  exact  pattern  of  another  is  not 
compatible  with  that  diversity  of  individuality 
which  belongs  to  all  development  of  the  personal 
life.  But  to  every  one  there  comes  the  call  of 
moral  consciousness,  and  there  is  laid  upon  every 
one  as  an  obligation  the  injunction  to  choose  and 
to  cherish  moral  ideals  as  they  are  revealed  to 
him  in  clearer  light  and  fuller  glory;  and  to  shape 
his  conduct  so  as  day  by  day  progressively  to 
realize  them.  In  doing  this,  two  virtues  which 
are  of  such  nature  as  to  secure  a  sort  of  harmony  of 
all  the  virtues,  stand  in  the  front  rank;  and  these 
are  Devotion  and  Fidelity,  —  both  unswervingly 
directed  toward  realizing  in  life  the  weight  and 
the  worth  of  moral  ideals. 


[157] 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

S  far  back  as  we  can  trace  the  ethical 
history  of  mankind  we  find  men  not 
only  making  the  general  distinction 
between  good  and  bad  conduct,  or  between 
behavior  which  is  to  be  approved  and  rewarded 
and  other  behavior  which  is  to  be  disapproved 
and  punished,  but  also  dividing  both  kinds  of 
behavior  into  subordinate  classes.  To  these 
classes  of  deeds  correspond  differences  in  the 
-qualities  of  manhood  and  of  the  individual  men 
who  perform  the  deeds.  There  is  the  good  man 
and  there  is  the  bad  man.  But  even  the  man 
who  is  on  the  whole  to  be  called  good,  or  who 
is  conspicuous  among  his  fellows  for  some  one  of 
the  good  qualities,  may  be  inconspicuous  or  even 
deficient  when  tested  by  his  possession  of  the  req- 
uisite degree  of  other  good  qualities.  He  may 
be  courageous,  but  not  just;  generous,  but  not 
truthful.  On  the  contrary,  even  the  bad  man 
may,  in  part  at  least,  atone  for  his  badness  in 
the  public  estimate  by  a  brilliant  display  of  some 
one  of  the  better  qualities  of  manhood. 

These    various    qualities    recognized    as    fitly 
belonging  to  the  good  man,  as  indeed  the  very 
[158] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

characteristics  which  make  him  seem  good  in  the 
sight  of  others,  are  the  so-called  Virtues;  and  the 
opposite  characteristics  are  the  Vices,  or  vitiating 
traits  that  spoil  or  mar  the  moral  reputation  of 
the  community  and  of  the  individual  man. 

If  then  we  ask  ourselves:  "In  what  sense  are 
courage,  constancy,  fidelity,  justice,  wisdom,  kind- 
ness, generosity,  better  than  cowardice,  fickle- 
ness, injustice,  folly,  cruelty,  and  meanness?"  the 
answer  is:  "These  are  the  qualities  which  belong 
to  the  man  who  is  of  the  true  type,  the  man  who 
is  really  good."  And  being  one's  Self  "really 
good"  means  something  more  than  merely  being 
"good  for  something"  in  particular.  We  may 
then  say,  in  a  sort  of  provisional  way,  that  the 
virtues  are  the  habitual  forms  of  conduct  which 
distinguish  good  men  from  bad  men;  or  —  more 
abstractly  stated  —  the  qualities  which  when 
expressed  in  the  conduct  of  life  realize  the  con- 
ception of  the  nobler  and  better  Self.  Thus  the 
Greeks  used  the  word  "good"  to  indicate  the 
more  manly  personal  characteristics  —  particu- 
larly, bravery  in  battle  for  the  state  and  nobility 
of  bearing.  But  their  special  word  for  "virtue" 
signified  that  which,  for  a  man,  is  best.  Virtus 
in  Latin  emphasized  the  same  traits  of  good 
manliness.  And  where  the  religious  idea  mingled 
with  the  more  purely  ethical  meaning,  the  bad 
man  —  as  in  both  Greek  and  Latin  —  was  called 
"smutty"  or  "black,"  and  in  Sanscrit  by  a  word 
derived  from  "dirt."  The  bad  man  has  in  the 

[159] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

sight  of  the  gods  a  much  darkened  and  badly  soiled 
character. 

The  idea  of  virtuousness  is  not,  then,  difficult  to 
discriminate  and  to  justify;  but  in  the  attempt 
to  deal  with  the  many  virtues  we  come  upon  two 
or  three  initial  difficulties,  which,  though  real, 
are  not  insuperable  and  are  quite  too  often  un- 
necessarily exaggerated.  The  first  of  these  arises 
from  the  fact  that  in  the  history  of  man's  ethical 
development  the  conceptions  of  the  virtuous  and 
of  the  vicious  seem  so  greatly  to  change.  Even 
at  the  present  time,  and  at  all  times  even  when 
there  seems  little  corresponding  difference  in  the 
stage  of  civilization  which  the  different  peoples 
have  reached,  virtues  and  vices  differ  both  in 
the  public  estimate,  and  as  regarded  by  ethical 
authorities.  So  great  not  infrequently  is  this 
difference,  that  with  whole  peoples  as  with  in- 
dividuals the  forms  of  conduct  which  one  regards 
as  most  virtuous  the  other  scorns  as  conspicuous 
for  their  viciousness. 

Looking  beneath  the  surface,  however,  we  may 
come  to  see  that  this  difference  is  far  more  appar- 
ent and  superficial  than  real  and  fundamental. 
Indeed,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that,  so  far  as 
we  have  evidence,  always  and  everywhere,  the 
greater  virtues  or  qualities  which  characterize 
the  morally  worthy  man  have  with  two  or 
three  exceptions  remained  essentially  unchanged. 
And  if  we  lay  emphasis  enough  on  the  title  to  be 
ranked  among  the  leading,  and  the  truly  greater 

[160] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

of  the  traits  of  a  virtuous  manhood,  we  can 
probably  merge  these  seeming  exceptions  in  the 
general  rule.  The  most  patent  of  such  exceptions 
as  they  appear  to  the  modern  and  largely  Christian 
doctrine  of  the  virtues  concern  certain  forms  of 
self-control,  such  as  chastity,  temperance,  charity, 
in  the  more  restricted  meaning  of  these  words. 
But  these  modifications  of  the  claim  to  a  noble 
and  commendable  manliness,  under  which  they 
are  supposed  fitly  to  fall,  are  dependent  to  a 
large  extent,  if  not  wholly,  on  changes  in  the 
economic  and  social  character  of  the  environment, 
rather  than  on  alterations  in  the  fundamental 
conceptions  of  moral  worth.  Some  kind  of  self- 
restraint  in  the  appetite  of  sex  and  in  all  the  other 
more  purely  physical  forms  of  desire  has  always 
and  everywhere  been  deemed  one  of  the  requisites 
for  a  perfectly  good  man.  Quite  unrestrained 
lust,  wholly  uncontrolled  anger,  being  overcome 
with  drink  or  with  greed,  are  not  now,  and  never 
—  to  all  appearances  —  have  been,  the  qualities 
of  a  noble  and  admirable  manhood. 

The  seeming  discrepancies  and  even  the  violent 
oppositions  in  respect  to  the  truly  virtuous  life 
are  much  modified,  are  indeed  almost  wholly 
done  away  with,  when  we  consider  how  in  fact 
and  in  momentary  value  the  current  virtues  have 
to  fit  themselves  to  the  changing  necessities  of 
different  times,  different  occasions,  and  different 
opportunities.  Always  courage  is  one  of  the 
most  fundamental,  if  not  in  some  sort  the  most 

[161] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

fundamental,  of  all  the  virtues.  As  long  as  any 
kind  of  struggle,  and  of  danger  to  life  and  other 
things  of  value  are  involved  in  the  issues  of  the 
struggle,  courage  will  dominate  the  very  essence 
of  the  character  of  the  good  and  honorable  man. 
But  the  way  the  courage  shows  itself,  and  the 
character  and  extent  of  the  demand  made  for 
the  precedence  given  to  this  virtue  among  the 
others,  will  always  depend  upon  a  variety  of 
ever-shifting  conditions.  It  is  not  in  times  of 
the  Trojan  and  other  wars  alone,  that  the  moral 
consciousness  of  mankind  affirms: 

"Whoso  is  seen  to  skulk  and  shirk  the  fight 
Shall  nowise  save  his  carcass  from  the  dogs." 

Now  the  emphasis  put  upon  the  kind  of  courage, 
and  indeed  upon  every  obvious  display  of  courage, 
may  greatly  vary  without  at  all  displacing  this 
particular  virtue  from  its  claim  to  lie  at  the  very 
foundations  of  all  true  manliness.  So,  too,  under 
that  mixture  of  imperialism  and  feudalism  which 
was  developed  in  the  Old  Japan,  as  an  outcome  of 
the  Confucian  ethics,  the  virtue  of  loyalty  may 
come  to  obscure  and  even  to  overwhelm  all  the 
other  virtues  that  cannot  be  consistently  evolved 
from  it.  In  drama  and  in  writings  on  morals  and 
civic  polity,  this  one  virtue  may  be  made  not  only 
the  excuse  but  even  the  justification  for  many 
vicious  deeds,  for  an  immoral  temper,  and  an 
unethical  view  of  life;  and  yet  the  fallacy  may 
be  one  of  over-emphasis  and  thoughtless  im- 

[162] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

moderation.  For  there  is  at  least  enough  of 
truth  in  Aristotle's  contention  that  the  very 
essence  of  a  virtue  is  to  lie  in  a  mean  between 
two  extremes,  to  justify  our  view  of  this  matter. 
Loyalty  is  indeed  a  virtue,  and  one  of  the  chiefest 
of  the  virtues.  And  like  all  the  other  most 
fundamental  of  the  qualities  of  a  manhood  true 
to  the  supreme  type,  it  may  be  made  so  to  pervade 
all  the  other  virtues  as  to  impart  to  them  some 
of  its  own  glorious  quality.  But  it  may  also  be 
conceived  of  and  put  into  practice  in  so  inclusive 
a  way  as  to  submerge  other  virtuous  impulses  and 
deeds,  and  so  to  convert  itself  into  a  mother  of 
vice.  Among  the  Japanese,  however,  where  in 
these  later  days  loyalty  has  been  most  conspicu- 
ously praised  and  most  splendidly  cultivated, 
you  are  not  likely  to  find  any  one  who  will  not 
acknowledge  the  truth  that  justice,  kindness, 
restraint  of  lust  and  anger,  are  essential  traits  in 
the  character  of  the  good  and  roundly  virtuous 
man.  Virtuousness  requires  many  virtues. 

It  is  testimony  to  the  wealth  of  human  capacity, 
both  intellectual  and  moral,  and  to  the  variety  of 
demands  made  by  the  claims  of  social  develop- 
ment, that  there  are  so  many  different  virtues 
and  that  it  is  so  hard  to  find  for  them  a  definite 
and  scientifically  satisfactory  system  of  classifica- 
tion. How  many  qualities  are  there,  in  fact, 
which  human  nature  may  develop,  and  of  which 
the  individual  or  the  social  whole  may  make  either 
good  or  bad  use?  How  should  we  go  to  work  to 

[163] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

answer  this  question,  on  the  basis  of  unimpeach- 
able testimony  and  in  a  quasi-demonstrable  way, 
without  attempting  a  complete  analysis  of  the 
capacities  of  human  nature,  and  then  framing  it 
in  a  setting  as  elastic  as  all  the  conceivable  de- 
mands which  future  social  changes  might  make 
upon  these  capacities?  Neither  psychology,  nor 
ethnology,  nor  the  study  of  history,  has  yet 
advanced  far  enough  to  guarantee  the  success  of 
such  an  endeavor.  But  the  case  is  not  so  bad  for 
the  student  who  would  classify  and  examine 
separately  the  different  principal  virtues  as  the 
confession  just  made  might  seem  to  imply.  Only, 
one  thing  must  be  constantly  kept  in  mind.  The 
many  virtues  cannot  be  considered  as  either 
separate  capacities,  or  wholly  separable  motives 
and  habits  of  conduct.  They  set  limits  to  each 
other;  and  sometimes  they  appear  somewhat 
stoutly  and  almost  violently  to  oppose  each  other. 
Courage  points  in  one  direction;  wisdom  or 
prudence  in  another.  We  seem  to  detect  in  these 
conflicting  claims  the  underlying  demand  that  we 
should  be  both  in  some  harmonizing  way.  Shall 
we  express  it  by  saying  that  we  must  always 
be  wisely  courageous  or  courageously  wise?  For 
the  all-around  good  man  seeks  a  harmony,  not 
only  of  his  powers  for  knowledge,  but  also  of  his 
capacity  for  virtue.  Many-sided  morality  is  as 
necessary  for  the  great  good  man  as  is  many-sided 
intellectuality  for  the  man  of  a  truly  great  mind. 

The  divisions,  under  which  it  is  often  proposed 

[164] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

to  classify  the  right  qualities  of  a  thoroughly  good 
manhood  by  reference  to  different  classes  of 
objects  on  which  these  qualities  expend  them- 
selves, are  more  lacking  in  scientific  accuracy  and 
in  practical  suggestiveness  in  the  case  of  the 
virtues  than  of  the  duties  as  studied  from  the 
natural  point  of  view.  Thus,  to  speak  of  virtues 
as  either  individual,  domestic,  or  social,  gives  no 
insight  whatever  into  the  nature  of  the  moral 
quality  which  we  are  exhorted  to  distribute 
according  to  some  artificial  regulations  among 
certain  persons  in  accordance  with  their  different 
relations  to  us.  But  is  courage  an  essentially 
different  virtue  when  it  is  called  forth  in  the 
defence  of  one's  own  life,  or  of  the  life  of  a  child, 
or  of  the  life  of  the  country?  Are  justice  and 
kindness  essentially  unlike  personal  qualities  of  a 
morally  desirable  sort,  when  they  are  to  be  ex- 
ercised in  defending  our  own  rights,  or  the  rights 
of  friends  and  neighbors,  or  in  granting  the  rights 
of  the  Filipinos  and  the  Japanese?  As  quali- 
ties of  human  nature,  that  may  go  either  right 
or  wrong,  with  a  quite  complete  disregard,  of  the 
relation  in  which  at  that  particular  moment  the 
person  may  be  standing  on  whom  they  fall,  either 
for  his  good  or  for  his  ill;  —  as  qualities  of  human 
nature,  it  is  only  in  the  light  of  an  analysis  of 
human  nature  that  the  virtues  and  the  vices  can 
be  so  understood  as  to  appreciate  the  weight  and 
the  worth  of  the  ideal  of  manhood  which  their 
harmonious  development  secures. 

[165] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

It  was  Plato,  who,  in  the  uncouth  form  that 
belonged  to  the  physiology  and  psycho-physics 
which  he  so  often  mixed  up  with  his  idealism, 
introduced  the  correct  principle  for  the  helpful 
division  of  the  virtues, —  helpful,  we  say,  for  the 
man  who  wishes  to  know  what  the  virtues  really 
are  and  what  it  means  to  develop  them  in  the 
way  of  a  practical  answer  to  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  There  are  three  cardinal  virtues, 
Plato  held;  and  yet  a  fourth  which  comprehends 
the  other  three  in  a  sort  of  divine  harmony. 
There  is  Wisdom,  which  is  the  cardinal  virtue  of 
the  head;  Courage,  or  the  virtue  of  the  heart; 
and  Self-control,  or  the  virtue  of  the  parts  below 
the  diaphragm.  Then  there  is  a  certain  Justness, 
or  right  proportion,  which  results  when  these 
three  virtues  are  combined  in  harmony  to  produce 
the  really  "good  man." 

It  is  the  psychological  principle,  when  given  a 
more  modern  form  and  used  with  the  explanations 
and  restrictions  already  provided,  which  avails 
best  to  classify  the  virtues  so  as  to  make  clear  the 
particular  nature  and  the  relative  value  of  each 
one.  Let  us  say  then  that  the  most  fundamental 
of  the  qualities  in  action  of  the  truly  good  man, 
the  so-called  "cardinal  virtues,"  may  be  divided 
into  three  general  classes,  according  as  they 
emphasize  and  express  (1)  good  qualities  of  Will, 
or  of  the  active  aspect  of  the  man;  (2)  good 
qualities  of  the  Judgment,  or  the  thoughtful  side 
of  the  man;  and  (3)  good  qualities  of  Feeling,  or 
[166] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

what  is  popularly  called,  the  "good-hearted" 
man.  But  again,  let  us  warn  ourselves  of  the 
strictness  with  which  the  Self,  in  matters  of 
conduct  as  in  all  other  matters,  acts  as  a  unity; 
and  that  there  is  no  good  or  bad  act,  in  the 
higher  ethical  meaning  of  these  words,  which  does 
not  involve  the  whole  Self, —  so-called  intellect, 
so-called  feeling,  and  so-called  will. 

From  time  immemorial  the  man  of  strong 
character  has  been  admired  from  both  the  ethical 
and  the  sesthetical  points  of  view.  When  his 
strength  has  been  expended  in  deeds  of  injustice 
or  brutality,  it  is  not  without  moral  justification 
that  the  strong  man,  the  man  of  great  will-power, 
has  been  especially  execrated  and  condemned. 
When  his  fixedness  of  purpose  and  ruthless  fear- 
lessness have  been  devoted  to  low  and  mean 
uses,  he  has  been  above  others,  and  especially  in 
contrast  with  the  fickle  but  generous  and  good- 
hearted  man,  openly  scorned  or  secretly  despised. 
But  if  we  can  isolate  that  quality  of  will,  which 
even  these  hateful  vices  exhibit  in  no  mean  degree, 
we  cannot  deny  that  it  is  the  very  foundation  of 
all  genuine  moral  development.  We  call  the 
generous  and  kindly  man  the  person  of  "good 
will";  but  the  man  of  self-control,  of  courage  as 
against  fear,  and  of  constancy  as  against  fickle- 
ness, is  much  better  entitled  to  this  praise. 
In  testing  this  class  of  the  cardinal  virtues, 
Browning  was  quite  in  the  right  when  he 
sang: 

[167] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

"Oh,  a  crime  will  do 
As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test 
As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through. 

The  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 
Is  —  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin." 

In  pursuit  of  a  further  classification  of  the 
more  fundamental  manly  qualities,  we  may  point 
out  that  the  three  cardinal  Virtues  of  Will,  or 
forms  of  Self-control  and  self-determination, 
which  emphasize  the  correct  functioning  of 
the  voluntary  Self  in  conduct,  are  Courage, 
Temperance,  and  Constancy.  Courage  is  self- 
control  in  the  presence  of  every  form  of  the 
temptation  to  fear.  Temperance  is  self-control 
in  the  presence  of  all  temptations  to  gratify  the 
appetites,  passions,  or  desires.  Constancy  is 
persistent  self-control  in  the  face  of  resistance  or 
obstacles  to  be  overcome.  It  imparts  "stick-to- 
it-ativeness  of  will"  to  every  voluntary  under- 
taking. The  vices  corresponding,  as  opposites, 
to  these  virtues  of  the  will,  are  cowardice,  prof- 
ligacy, or  licentiousness  in  the  broader  meaning 
of  the  latter  word,  and  fickleness  or  sloth. 

There  is  little  need  in  the  interests  of  improved 
morality  to  sound  the  praises  of  distinguished 
courage  in  the  more  obvious  and  spectacular  of 
its  many  forms  of  expression.  The  soldier,  the 
fireman,  the  miner,  the  driver  of  the  locomotive  or 
of  the  raft  of  logs  down  the  rapids  of  the  river, 
the  captain  and  crew  who  remain  faithful  to  duty 

[168] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

when  the  ship  is  sinking,  or  the  men  who  quietly 
stand  by  and  help  the  women  and  children  into 
the  boats,  —  all  these  and  similar  exhibitions  of 
this  virtue  of  courage  excite  today  as  much  of 
moral  approbation  as  such  deeds  ever  did.  And 
yet  Crawford  is  right  when  he  complains:  "We 
are  a  cowardly  generation,  and  men  shrink  from 
suffering  now,  as  their  fathers  shrank  from  dis- 
honor in  the  rougher  times.  The  lotus  hangs 
within  the  reach  of  all,  and  in  the  lives  of  many 
'it  is  always  afternoon,'  as  for  the  Lotus  Eaters. 
The  fruit  takes  many  shapes  and  names:  it  is 
called  Divorce,  it  is  called  Morphia,  it  is  called 
Compromise,  it  is  designated  in  a  thousand  ways 
and  justified  by  ten  thousand  specious  argu- 
ments, but  it  means  only  one  thing:  Escape  from 
pain."  But  there  is  no  need  for  encouraging  the 
frequent  revival  of  wars,  or  the  riotous  resistance 
to  political  wrongs,  in  order  to  revive  the  more 
universal  prevalence  of  this  declining  virtue. 
There  is  no  need  even  to  heighten  the  already 
extravagant  praises  bestowed  upon  the  daring 
athlete  or  explorer.  Even  savages  need  more 
courage  for  facing  the  terror  of  their  tabus,  than 
for  putting  on  another  coating  of  war  paint. 
The  Hindus  need  a  great  accession  of  courage,  not 
so  much  for  organizing  a  revolt  against  the  Anglo- 
Indian  Government  as  for  facing  down  their  own 
terrifying  and  debasing  superstitions  and  the 
degrading  slavery  of  caste.  And  in  England  and 
America,  where  cowardice  and  greed  are  the 

[169] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

most  prevalent  and  harmful  of  all  the  forms  taken 
by  the  unmanly  vices,  men  and  women  urgently 
require  more  of  the  spirit  which  bravely  faces 
and  patiently  endures  hardship,  disappointment, 
and  loss,  when  devotion  to  duty  require  it.  For 
loyalty  to  the  moral  ideal  is  better  shown  along  the 
path  of  patient  suffering,  than  by  audacity  in 
organizing  a  strike,  or  the  promotion  of  a  syndi- 
cate, or  the  conduct  of  a  political  campaign;  — 
and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add,  in  fraudulent 
misrepresentation  or  acts  of  sabotage. 

Of  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  that  of  temperance 
seems  most  subject  to  misunderstanding  as  to  its 
essential  nature  and  its  application  in  the  conduct 
of  life.  Defined,  with  due  regard  to  its  essential 
nature,  this  virtue  is  equivalent  to  the  rational 
moderation  of  every  form  of  natural  impulse, 
positive  or  defensive,  toward  all  kinds  of  good. 
The  germ  of  the  correct  idea,  the  idea  which  best 
characterizes  this  sort  of  well-doing,  and  which 
suggests  the  kind  of  ideal  manhood  exhibited  by 
its  perfect  development,  is  fitly  given  in  the 
Greek  word  "sophrosune"  a  word  for  which  we 
have  no  exact  equivalent,  but  which  may  be 
paraphrased  as  a  "healthy-minded,  rational  will." 
For  the  virtue,  in  this  its  well-braced  and  uni- 
versally applicable  meaning,  we  have  (I  think, 
unfortunately)  substituted  two  quite  subordinate 
divisions  of  the  qualities  covered  by  the  undivided 
idea;  and  these  are  the  virtues  of  a  tempered 
indulgence  of  the  appetite  of  sex  as  provided  for 

[170] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

by  the  prevailing  institution  of  monogamic  mar- 
riage, or  chastity,  and  the  control  of  the  artificial 
appetite  for  alcoholic  drinks,  in  the  form  of  a  very 
moderate  use  or  of  a  total  abstinence.  Accord- 
ingly, other  forms  of  the  self-control  of  these  two 
urgencies  of  an  appetitive  sort  have  been  relegated 
to  the  category  of  the  vices;  and  in  the  case  of 
those  whose  social  organization  and  conven- 
tionalities differ  from  our  own,  the  many  other 
kinds  of  virtuous  living  which  come  under  the 
head  of  the  self-control  of  the  good  man  are 
scarcely  recognized  as  virtues  at  all.  Thus,  for 
example,  a  man  whose  greed  has  been  most  intem- 
perate and  productive  of  suffering  and  crime 
among  others,  if  only  he  make  display  of 
some  rather  remotely  connected  virtue  (such  as 
a  certain  kind  of  calculated  generosity)  may  be 
rated  much  higher  in  the  scale  of  moral  well- 
being  than  the  woman  who  has  lapsed  from 
chastity,  or  the  man  who  has  fallen  a  victim  to 
the  vice  of  intemperance  in  the  narrower  meaning 
of  the  term. 

Similar  remarks  apply  to  that  kind  of  the 
virtue  of  temperance  which  consists  in  the  control 
of  the  passion  of  anger.  The  emotion  of  resent- 
ment at  all  forms  of  seeming  injustice,  of  invasion 
of  the  rights  or  unjustifiable  restriction  of  the 
interests  of  others,  is  one  of  the  most  essential  as 
well  as  valuable  of  human  impulses.  Without  it 
there  could  be  no  sound  constitution  or  favorable 
development  of  human  society.  In  the  lower 

[171] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

animals  this  passion,  like  the  appetite  of  sex,  has 
a  biological  rather  than  a  strictly  moral  signifi- 
cance. But  in  no  condition  of  lowest  savageism 
is  the  self-control  of  anger  lacking  from  the  list  of 
the  qualities  of  the  truly  virtuous  man;  nor  is  the 
complete  lack  of  such  self-control  regarded  other- 
wise than  as  a  moral  failure  or  a  punishable  vice. 
Indeed,  to  justify  itself  at  the  bar  of  moral  con- 
sciousness, the  indulgence  of  this  passion  must 
take  the  form  of  the  virtue  of  justice,  or  of  a 
feeling  supplementary  to  the  virtue  of  courage. 
So  the  brave  warrior  in  Homer  "puts  might  into 
his  rage,"  and  lets  "fierce  wrath  breathe  through 
his  nostrils";  and  the  ancient  Scandinavian 
boasts:  "I  have  walked  with  bloody  brand  and 
whistling  spear."  But  even  the  savages  of  Cen- 
tral Africa  have  the  moral  good  sense  to  see  that 
"Ashes  fly  back  in  the  face  of  the  thrower"; 
that  "He  who  injures  another  injures  himself"; 
that  "Anger  benefits  no  one";  and  that  "He  who 
forgives  gains  the  victory." 

Some  motive  other  than  the  impulses  to  lust 
or  to  anger  seems  necessary,  therefore,  even  in 
the  sight  of  those  whose  social  life  has  not  been 
permeated  with  an  intelligent  conception  of  the 
moral  and  social  value  of  their  control,  if  any- 
thing approaching  an  unlimited  indulgence  of 
either  impulse  is  to  justify  itself  on  moral  grounds. 
Strangely  enough  the  most  persuasive  of  these 
fictitious  grounds  of  apology  for  the  vices  of 
intemperate  lust  and  intemperate  anger  are  quite 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

too  often  found  in  religion.  The  phallus  was 
worshipped  by  the  ancient  Greeks  and  by  the 
•Japanese  of  a  generation  ago;  the  lingam  is  wor- 
shipped by  the  Hindus  of  today.  The  ancient 
Jews  felt  bound  by  fidelity  to  Jehovah  to  exter- 
minate his  enemies;  religious  beliefs  and  emo- 
tions of  no  tender  kind  joined  with  the  political 
to  carry  on  the  Thirty- Years  War  in  Europe;  and 
the  bitterness  and  unreasonableness  of  ecclesi- 
astical anger  has  even  yet  not  been  wholly  expelled 
from  the  hearts  of  men  as  a  prolific  source  of 
intemperate  hatred  and  unreasoning  strife. 

Above  all  the  cardinal  vices  which  defile  the 
souls  of  men  and  afflict  the  interests  of  man's 
moral  and  social  development  at  the  present 
time,  we  must  probably  put  intemperate  desire 
for  wealth  and  for  the  power  that  wealth  gives, 
at  the  very  head  of  the  list.  Avarice,  uncon- 
trolled by  essentially  pure  moral  ideals  and  by 
the  faiths  and  hopes  of  a  genuine  religious  kind, 
is  apparently  more  than  ever  in  the  modern  world 
the  "root"  of  every  kind  and  degree  of  evil. 
Every  other  form  of  intemperance,  as  well  as 
all  the  vicious  emotions,  is  capitalized  and  domi- 
nated by  this  particular  vicious  lack  of  manly 
self-control.  One  answer  at  least  is  perfectly 
plain  in  the  ear  of  the  man  who  is  asking  the 
question  What  ought  I  to  do?  Fortify  yourself 
against  the  prevalent  and  seductive  vice  of  an 
intemperate  desire  for  the  acquisition  of  every 
kind  of  material  good. 

[173] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

It  seems  almost  a  misnomer  to  speak  of  Con- 
stancy as  a  virtue;  so  much  is  it  the  very  back- 
bone of  all  virtuous  and  manly  character.  But 
then  this  is  true  in  a  measure  of  all  the  so-called 
virtues  of  the  will.  For  what  we  call  the  Will  is 
the  summing-up  of  the  backbone  quality  of  the 
man.  Every  virtue  in  order  to  be  a  genuine  virtue 
must  be,  so  to  say  "endorsed"  by  the  will;  and 
in  order  to  grow  toward  perfection  as  a  virtue, 
toward  its  own  appropriate  form  of  the  perfect 
virtuous  life,  it  must  be  consistently  and  per- 
sistently endorsed  by  the  will.  "Consistency," 
says  Lotze,  "is  demanded  in  conduct."  "We 
demand  that  every  single  action  be  not  at  all 
times  dependent  on  a  hazardous  struggle  between 
character  and  the  impulse  of  the  moment."  "A 
double-minded  man  is  unstable  in  all  his  ways"; 
and  "Let  not  that  man  think  that  he  shall  receive 
anything  of  the  Lord."  But  the  virtue  of  con- 
stancy is  not,  of  course,  to  be  confused  with  the 
obstinacy  of  a  blind  will.  This  virtue,  like  all  the 
virtues  of  this  class,  must  be  kept  walking  in 
the  light  by  certain  of  those  qualities  of  the 
thoroughly  and  all-around  good  man,  which  we 
have  placed  in  another  class. 

That  man's  intelligence,  his  powers  of  ideation, 
of  reasoning,  and  of  forming  such  conceptions  as 
transcend  the  mere  data  of  perception  by  the 
senses  —  for  example,  the  conceptions  of  time, 
Self,  and  cause  and  effect  —  are  invariably  matters 
of  supreme  moral  import,  has  already  been  made 

[174] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

sufficiently  clear.  We  bear  this  in  mind  as  we 
come  to  consider  the  qualities  of  the  good  man 
which  have  been  classed  as  the  Virtues  of  the 
Judgment.  Among  these  we  mention,  as  the 
most  truly  cardinal,  Wisdom,  Justness,  and 
Trueness.  In  this  consideration  it  must  also  be 
borne  in  mind  that  judgment  is  itself  a  species  of 
conduct;  that  the  making  of  judgments  is  in  some 
real  measure  under  the  control  of  the  will;  and 
that  the  part  which  controlled  judgment  takes  in 
the  life  of  conduct  is  integral  and  essential.  In 
a  word,  it  is  quite  impossible  for  one  to  be  a 
good  man  without  becoming  a  man  of  good 
judgment. 

So  great  and  universal  in  all  ages  has  been  the 
moral  respect  for  men  of  wisdom  that  this  virtue 
seems  entitled  to  take  its  place  by  the  side  of 
courage  as  laying  the  foundations  for  every  sort 
of  welfare,  both  for  the  individual  and  for  society. 
Among  the  lowest  savages  the  man  who  is  wise 
in  council  is  the  running  mate  of  the  man  who  is 
brave  in  war.  In  the  complications  of  modern 
society,  for  the  inaugurating  and  promoting  of 
that  which  is  good,  and  for  the  combating 
and  correcting  of  that  which  is  evil,  wisdom 
and  courage — a  wise  courage,  a  courageous  wis- 
dom—  are  confessedly  the  qualities  in  greatest 
demand.  Is  it  a  matter  of  the  government  of 
children,  of  settling  disputes,  domestic  or  those 
which  arise  between  employer  and  laborer,  an 
affair  of  legislation  or  diplomacy?  It  is  the  man 

[175] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

who  is  both  courageous  and  wise  to  whom  others 
look  with  the  largest  measure  of  confidence. 

To  sing  the  praises  of  wisdom  there  is  no  need. 
Kings  are  saved  by  it,  even  if,  being  fools  them- 
selves, they  are  only  wise  enough  to  choose 
wise  counsellors  and  to  follow  their  advice.  But 
there  is  perhaps  greater  need  and  greater  difficulty 
to  distinguish  between  the  shams  of  wisdom  and 
its  reality,  than  is  the  case  with  any  other  of  the 
truly  cardinal  virtues.  This  is  especially  so  be- 
cause several  subordinate  but  important  forms  of 
right  conduct  flow  from  this  fruitful  source,  the 
virtue  of  wisdom.  These  may  be  called  the 
"prudential  virtues."  They  are  much  praised, 
much  in  demand,  but  much  counterfeited  as  well. 
How  often  is  what  is  popularly  esteemed  as  the 
virtue  of  prudence  in  reality  only  a  form  of  the 
vice  of  cowardice!  and  yet  we  cannot  deny  pru- 
dence a  place  among  the  virtues.  But  the  evil 
which  the  genuinely  prudent  man  most  foresees 
and  guards  against  is  the  surrender  of  any  of  the 
cardinal  virtues  to  the  solicitations  from  self- 
interest,  and  the  loss  or  the  lowering  of  his  moral 
ideals.  In  its  higher  forms,  and  as  its  supreme 
triumph,  the  virtue  of  a  wise  prudence  prevents 
the  individual  and  the  community  from  wearing 
itself  out  in  the  attempt  to  break  over  the  re- 
straints set  by  an  inexorable  Nature  to  men's 
desires,  and  leads  to  a  patiently  wise  acceptance  of, 
and  adjustment  to,  the  inevitable.  This  is  the 
benign  virtue  of  a  wise  resignation. 

[176] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

Of  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  in  the  intercourse 
of  men  with  one  another  in  the  daily  life  under 
ordinarily  peaceful  conditions,  the  one  which 
customarily  bears  the  title  of  justice,  but  which 
I  have  ventured  (in  view  of  a  more  inclusive 
conception  and  a  more  expansive  practice)  to 
call  "Justness,"  is  at  once  the  most  imperatively 
demanded  and  the  most  difficult  to  determine. 
Just  what  is  just,  —  this  is  an  affair  of  good 
judgment  which  varies  under  an  indefinite  number 
of  constantly  shifting  relations,  and  in  the  most 
startling  ways  from  age  to  age  and  from  nation  to 
nation.  Too  big  a  "squeeze"  in  China  is  an 
intolerable  injustice;  in  England  any  appearance 
of  "squeeze"  at  all  is  publicly  resented  as  in- 
justice. But  in  both  countries,  and  in  all  coun- 
tries, many  forms  of  the  rankest  offences  against 
what  reflection  seems  to  compel  us  to  hold  fla- 
grantly unjust  go  not  only  unrebuked  but  even 
unsuspected.  And  what  is  really  just  in  one 
age  and  under  one  set  of  circumstances  becomes 
really  unjust  in  another  age  under  changed  cir- 
cumstances. When  we  discover  the  ceaseless 
contentions  over  the  applications  and  misapplica- 
tions of  this  quality  of  good  manhood  we  are  not 
surprised  at  the  cry  of  the  ages  as  voiced  by  the 
writer  of  Ecclesiastes:  "There  is  not  a  just  man 
upon  earth,  that  doeth  good,  and  sinneth  not." 
No  wonder  that  this  virtue  and  its  corresponding 
vice  get  themselves  classed  as  chiefly  matters 
of  good  and  bad  judgment.  In  order,  however, 

[177] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

that  good  judgment  may  be  entitled  to  be  called 
good  conduct,  and  bad  judgment  may  deserve  to 
be  called  a  crime  or  a  vice,  good  will  or  bad  will 
must  be  put  into  the  judgment.  It  is  this  last 
consideration  which  enables  us  to  see  a  little  way 
into  the  essential  character  of  the  virtue  of  just- 
ness in  its  broader  meaning.  But  it  also  brings 
out  the  truth  how  often 

"This  even-handed  justice 

Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips. " 

By  justness,  then,  we  can  only  understand  the 
spirit  of  fairness  as  it  manifests  itself  in  the  vol- 
untary judgment  which  duly  apportions  to  men 
their  share  in  the  goods  and  evils  of  life,  so 
far  as  these  are  dependent  upon  human  conduct. 
Justice  so  defined  comes  pretty  near  to  what 
Aristotle  called  a  "kind  of  general  justice"  and 
which  he  reckoned  "not  a  part  of  virtue  but  the 
whole  of  virtue,"  a  "complete  virtue,  although 
not  complete  in  the  absolute  sense,  but  in  relation 
to  one's  neighbor."  This  fallacy  of  one  "com- 
plete virtue,"  or  single  quality  of  good  manhood 
expansive  enough  to  include  all  the  other  good 
qualities,  we  shall  expose  at  another  time.  We 
notice  now,  however,  that  such  justness  requires 
perfect  wisdom,  courage,  constancy,  and  control 
over  the  malign  passions  and  selfish  desires,  for 
its  own  approaches  to  perfection;  and  that,  there- 
fore, only  infinite  knowledge  can  enable  a  holy 

[178] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

will  to  be  perfectly  just.  It  is  small  reason 
for  wonder,  that  this  much-prized  social  and 
civic  virtue  is  so  variously  estimated,  so  hotly 
contested. 

Justness  includes  what  theologians  and  jurists 
call  "retributive  justice";  and  this  kind  of  justice 
is  no  unimportant  part  of  the  cardinal  virtue  of 
justness.  As  says  Lotze:  "Retribution  is  agree- 
able to  conscience;  that  is  to  say,  the  returning 
of  a  corresponding  measure  of  reward  or  punish- 
ment to  a  will  which  has  occasioned  a  definite 
measure  of  weal  or  woe."  But  only  a  trained  and 
morally  loyal  judgment  can  even  confidently 
guess  at  what  is  "a  definite  measure  of  weal  or 
woe,"  or  calculate  "a  corresponding  measure  of 
reward  or  punishment."  And  besides,  perfect 
justness  itself  not  infrequently  calls  for  forgive- 
ness and  should  always  be  tempered  with  kind- 
ness and  pity.  The  value  in  which  this  virtue 
is  held  by  the  moral  consciousness  of  mankind  is 
testified  to  even  by  the  crimes  which  are  done  in 
its  name.  The  Javanese  servant  may  submit 
quietly  to  fines  and  blows  from  his  master,  because 
he  thinks  them  the  appropriate  thing  anent  the 
relation;  but  he  will  kill  with  a  good  conscience 
that  same  master  if  called  by  him  an  opprobrious 
name.  And  the  "grafters,"  "white-slavers,"  and 
"strong-armed"  thieves  of  our  modern  American 
cities  are  never  backward  about  insisting  on  what 
they  call  the  "fair  thing"  in  their  iniquitous 
partnership  with  the  police. 

[179] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

Of  all  the  cardinal  virtues  which  we  have 
classified  under  this  head,  that  which  we  have 
called  Trueness  is  probably  most  universally  and 
ruthlessly  violated.  This  is  not,  however,  because 
its  claim  to  be  an  important  virtue  is  not  recog- 
nized among  the  lowest  in  the  scale  of  moral 
culture;  but  the  rather  on  account  of  the  extreme 
difficulties  which  attend  its  attainment  and  its 
practice,  and  the  ubiquitous  and  almost  uncon- 
querable temptations  to  the  various  forms  of  the 
vice  which  is  its  opposite  in  the  scale  of  the  virtues. 
Even  since  the  time  of  the  Greek  moralists,  truth 
has  been  esteemed  to  be  the  virtue  of  the  gentle- 
man; but,  on  the  contrary,  falsehood  has  been 
excused  as  the  necessity  of  the  poor,  the  needy, 
the  subject  and  dependent  classes.  "The  man 
who  rings  the  bell  cannot  march  in  the  procession." 
"A  poor  man's  pipe  does  not  sound,"  say  the 
men  of  Accra.  "When  a  poor  man  makes  a 
proverb  it  does  not  spread,"  is  a  saying  among 
the  Ojis. 

"O  monstrous  world!    Take  note,  take  note,  O  World, 
To  be  direct  and  honest,  is  not  safe." 

But  "The  liar  is  short-lived,"  says  the  Arabian 
proverb.  "Lies,  though  many,  will  be  caught  by 
truth,  as  soon  as  she  rises  up,"  is  the  Wolof  way 
of  expressing  the  general  experience. 

The  essential  quality  of  Trueness  consists  in 
that  attitude  of  mind  toward  the  facts  of  reality 
which  faces  them  fearlessly,  sees  them  clearly, 

[180] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

and  when  duty  requires  or  dutiful  opportunity 
permits,  expresses  them  sincerely  as  they  have 
more  or  less  clearly  been  seen  to  be.  Taken  in 
this  meaning,  the  virtue  of  trueness  is  the  very 
core  of  morally  sound  manhood. 

The  mind  that  earnestly  covets  the  possession 
of  this  noble  virtue,  the  virtue  par  excellence  of 
the  Christian  gentleman  whatever  his  civic  rank 
or  social  station,  will  not  be  primarily  interested 
in  the  casuistical  and  often  sophistical  inquiry, 
whether  lies  are  ever  justifiable,  and  what  manners 
and  degrees  of  falsehood  are  habitually  excusable, 
on  the  ground  that  "all  the  others  do  the  same 
thing";  but  he  will,  the  rather,  seize  upon  the 
most  exalted  view  of  the  nature  and  the  value  of 
the  virtue  with  the  fixed  determination  to  make 
it,  as  a  matter  of  unquestioned  habit,  his  very 
own.  His  aim  is  to  be  a  really  true  man. 

The  vices  which  oppose  truth,  and  successfully 
thwart  its  best  development,  are  manifold;  they 
are  all  the  more  seductive  because  it  is  not  so 
universally  recognized  as  it  should  be  that  they  are 
the  chief  forms  under  which  the  spirit  of  falsehood 
has  come  to  shelter  itself  in  this  modern  world. 
The  number  of  men  who  lie  through  the  fear  of 
the  lash  or  the  gallows,  or  starvation,  is  relatively 
diminished.  But  the  number  who  lie  by  way  of 
false  labels,  false  balance-sheets,  and  false  repre- 
sentations in  the  interests  of  avarice,  was  —  it 
would  seem  —  never  greater  than  at  the  present 
time.  And  here  we  are  again  reminded  how 

[181] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

cowardice  and  avarice  serve  as  the  leaders  in 
other  forms  of  degrading  vice. 

But  especially  seductive  are  certain  forms  taken 
by  the  spirit  of  untruth  which  are  much  harder 
to  recognize  and  therefore  much  harder  to  avoid. 
Of  these  we  mention  three:  (1)  Thoughtlessness, 
whether  it  takes  the  form  of  carelessness  or 
indifference  or  sloth  in  the  making-up  of  our 
judgments;  (2)  Dogmatism;  and  (3)  Partisan- 
ship. These  attitudes  toward  the  truth  of  things 
are  all  essentially  immoral.  And  they  are  es- 
pecially injurious  to  the  cardinal  virtue  of  trueness, 
when  the  truths  at  stake  are  of  the  higher  order, 
the  great  and  eternally  existent  verities  of  the 
Universe,  —  above  all,  the  principles  that  under- 
lie and  have  the  right  to  regulate  the  moral  and 
religious  and  social  life  of  humanity.  About  such 
truths  no  person  has  any  right  to  be  careless  or 
indulgent  of  the  spirit  of  the  dogmatist  or  the 
partisan. 

Trueness  in  the  higher  meaning  of  the  word 
is  one  of  the  most  unqualified  of  all  the  virtues. 
But  trueness,  as  a  virtue  of  judgment,  requires 
courage,  temperance,  constancy,  wisdom,  justness, 
kindness,  in  its  own  expression,  —  whether  the 
expression  be  in  the  form  of  speech,  or  in  some 
form  of  action. 

So  charming  are  the  Virtues  of  Feeling,  such 
as  kindness,  sympathy,  and  the  various  forms  of 
friendly  affection,  hospitality,  generosity,  and 
pity  for  the  suffering  and  unfortunate,  that  there 

[182] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

is  little  need  to  sound  their  praises  in  the  ears  of 
him  who  is  asking  the  question,  What  ought  I  to 
do?  There  is  almost  as  little  need  to  controvert 
the  theory  which  once  prevailed  more  widely 
than  now,  that  these  virtues  are  not  "natural," 
are  indeed  only  subtle  forms  of  that  overmaster- 
ing selfishness,  which  varnishes  what  of  seeming 
beauty  and  goodness  it  cannot  quite  subdue. 
For  these  lovely  virtues  are  just  as  natural  and 
universal  and  universally  esteemed  as  are  those 
of  the  sterner  and  more  protective  sort.  Indeed, 
as  we  have  already  said,  they  are  universally 
esteemed  as  having  a  somewhat  special  charm. 
When  traced  to  their  source  in  crude  and  unde- 
veloped human  nature,  they  are  said  to  arise  from 
the  good  heart,  or  from  the  viscera  that  lie  lower 
down.  They,  too,  like  all  the  virtuous  qualities 
require  to  be  backed  by  good  will  and  guided  by 
wisdom.  For  although  they  are  themselves  full 
too  often  esteemed  to  constitute  the  very  essence 
of  "good  will,"  they  are  rather  to  be  classed 
among  the  virtues  of  an  impulsive  character; 
and  they  stand  habitually  in  special  need  of 
guidance  from  wisdom.  All  of  which,  and  much 
more  that  might  be  said  in  the  same  line,  con- 
tributes to  emphasize  again  the  interdependent 
character  of  all  the  cardinal  virtues.  For  wisdom 
divorced  from  the  spirit  of  sympathy  and  kindness 
is  no  longer  wisdom;  and  unwise  kindness  is  too 
often  real  unkindness. 

The  one  word  which  expresses  the  essence  of 

[183] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

this  class  of  virtues  in  the  most  inclusive  and 
perspicuous  way  is  the  word  Sympathy;  and 
the  nature  of  human  sympathy  has  been  much 
discussed  by  moralists  of  all  times  and  of  all 
schools.  In  its  root  form  this  feeling  is  best 
defined  as  the  feeling  of  liking  for  (or  special 
attachment  to)  those  of  one's  kind.  Something 
of  this  sort  can  be  traced  very  low  down  in  the 
animal  world.  To  feel  with  the  species  —  "like 
to  like"  and  "crow  to  crow"  —  is  a  biological 
fact  quite  universally  illustrated.  In  man's  case, 
its  more  primitive  and  potent  forms  of  expression 
are  pretty  closely  confined  to  the  relations  of  the 
family,  or  of  the  tribe;  or  to  those  peculiar  rela- 
tions which  come  under  the  title  of  friendship. 
Kindly  feeling,  and  the  merits  of  affection  as  a 
motive  for  good  conduct,  in  these  relations,  are 
almost  if  not  quite  universally  appreciated. 

It  is  a  mistake  (which  some  writers  have  carried 
into  their  account  of  the  ancient  Greek  and  of  the 
modern  Japanese  relations  of  the  sexes)  to  deny 
the  influence  of  romantic  affection  in  all  the 
varied  forms  and  circumstances  of  married  life. 
The  affection  of  the  most  monstrously  licentious 
and  cruel  of  African  chiefs  for  his  favorite  wife, 
even  if  she  remain  in  his  favor  only  a  short  time, 
is  not  wholly  a  sensuous  affair.  On  the  other 
hand,  not  even  in  the  most  highly  civilized  of 
European  countries  is  marriage,  and  the  domestic 
relations  which  it  implies,  with  their  corresponding 
virtues,  based  solely  on  romantic  affection.  In 

[184] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

no  sense  of  the  word,  can  "love"  be  the  sole 
basis  for  a  moral  union  of  the  sexes. 

One  of  the  most  conspicuous  and  universal  of 
the  forms  taken  by  the  virtue  of  kindly  feeling  is 
hospitality.  In  the  Greek  world  this  high  regard 
for  hospitality  goes  back  to  the  very  earliest 
times.  Among  the  Arabs  it  is  still  rather  the 
most  binding  of  all  the  virtues.  To  be  treacherous 
toward  those  with  whom  you  have  eaten  salt, 
or  broken  bread,  or  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace,  is 
counted  among  the  basest  and  most  severely 
punishable  of  all  crimes.  Quite  universally,  the 
stranger  or  even  the  quondam  enemy,  when  once 
he  has  been  received  under  the  cover  of  your  tent 
or  of  the  roof  of  your  house,  is  morally  entitled 
to  protection  and  to  generous  treatment. 

It  is  friendship,  however,  which  everywhere 
and  in  all  times  both  demands  and  affords  oppor- 
tunity for  the  noblest  of  the  virtues  of  the  good- 
hearted  man.  And  this  fact  is  justifiable  on 
grounds  of  the  intrinsic  nature  of  all  virtue  as 
consistent  with  the  unchanging  character  and  the 
essential  laws  of  the  development  of  all  personal 
life.  For  this  form  of  affection  is  the  freest  from 
dependence  upon  changing  relation,  and  is  most 
dependent  on  personal  character.  To  the  friend, 
whatever  the  outward  tie  of  relationship  within 
which  the  feeling  is  confined  for  its  manifestation, 
there  is  a  spontaneity  about  service  up  to  the 
extremest  limits  of  self-sacrifice,  which  is  peculiar 
to  the  feeling  itself. 

[185] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

The  deficiencies  in  the  exercise  of  the  virtues 
of  feeling  arise  mainly  from  the  lack  of  constancy; 
the  mistakes  from  a  lack  of  wisdom.  But  the 
limitations,  within  which  it  is  held  that  the  duties 
prompted  by  good  feeling  should  apply,  afford 
the  chief  concern  to  the  student  of  the  develop- 
ment of  morals.  It  has  indeed  been  said  to  (and 
by)  them  of  old  time,  "Thou  shalt  love  thy  neigh- 
bor and  hate  thine  enemy."  And  when  we  get 
below  the  prudence  and  the  pretence  which 
characterize  so  much  of  our  modern  life,  we  find 
alas!  that  pretty  much  the  same  rule  is  secretly 
if  not  openly  proclaimed  to  (and  by)  the  men  of 
modern  times.  Yet  the  chief  characteristic  of 
the  progress  made  in  this  class  of  virtues  is  their 
universalizing.  More  and  more  it  is  accepted  in 
theory,  however  imperfectly  and  slowly  the 
practice  is  made  to  correspond,  that  the  sympa- 
thetic virtues  are  due,  as  from  man  to  man  and 
irrespective  of  conditions  of  a  less  intrinsic  kind. 
Respect  for  personality,  —  for  one's  own  person 
and  for  the  person  of  every  other  in  the  species 
called  human, —  is  the  rational  and  moral  form  of 
what  is  otherwise  only,  in  fact,  an  animal  and 
instinctive  feeling  of  attraction  to  others  of  the 
same  kind. 

When  we  inquire  what  are  the  forces  which  have 
operated  so  to  lift  up  and  extend  over  all  hu- 
manity the  virtues  of  the  sympathetic  order,  we 
must  undoubtedly  recognize  as  most  fundamental 
that  wider  and  more  intensive  intercourse  which 

[186] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

has  not  only  favored  but  in  a  way  compelled  the 
better  acquaintance  of  man  with  man.  This  is, 
in  fact,  the  increased  recognition  of  the  mental 
and  ethical  unity  of  the  species,  —  no  matter 
what  biology  or  history  may  have  to  say  about 
its  unity  by  descent  and  in  physical  character- 
istics. Philosophy  and  art  —  the  forms  of  thought 
and  the  forms  of  beauty  —  which  emphasize  and 
expound  and  express  what  is  universal  in  the 
human,  what  belongs  to  man  as  man  —  have 
also  been  most  potent  influences  in  effecting  this 
great  gain  to  the  theory  and  the  practice  of  the 
moral  life.  But  above  all,  those  greater  religions 
which  have  avowedly,  in  the  teachings  and  ex- 
amples of  their  founders,  placed  all  men  on  an 
equality  before  God.  Of  such  religions,  Bud- 
dhism, but  above  all  Christianity  as  the  religion  of 
Jesus,  are  entitled  to  the  place  of  highest  honor. 
But  Mohammed,  too,  speaking  of  the  right 
treatment  of  slaves,  reminded  his  followers  that 
"all  Moslems  are  brothers  unto  one  another"; 
and  every  human  being  might  become  a  Moslem 
and  so  a  brother.  Even  Hinduism,  which  has 
degraded  itself  below  the  other  great  religions  by 
its  immoral  theory  and  practice  of  caste,  can 
quote  the  Bhagavad  Gita  in  favor  of  "feelings  of 
universal  fellowship."  Yet  Wundt  is  justified  in 
declaring  that  "humanity  in  the  highest  sense 
was  brought  into  the  world  by  Christianity." 

In   so   brief  a  discussion  of    the    nature    and 
obligations  of  the  many  virtues  it  is  not  neces- 

[187] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

sary  to  point  out  that  the  commercial  virtues  of 
honesty,  promptness  in  meeting  obligations,  and 
fidelity  in  matters  of  contract  (qualities  in  the 
man  of  business  so  highly  prized  at  the  present 
time  and  in  our  Western  civilization)  are,  as  it 
were,  secondary  to  the  cardinal  virtues  of  just- 
ness and  trueness;  and  how  courtesy  and  kindly 
regard  for  the  feelings  of  others,  and  even  the 
willingness  that  the  other  should,  as  the  phrase 
is,  "save  his  face"  (virtues  prized  so  much  more 
highly  in  the  Orient  than  among  us)  are  the 
legitimate  offspring  of  the  kindly  sympathy  to 
which  every  man  is  obligated  in  his  dealings  with 
every  other  man. 

For  the  inquirer,  What  ought  I  to  do?  two 
valuable  injunctions  may  be  taken  away  from 
even  this  inevitably  fragmentary  discussion  of 
the  various  habitual  ways  of  behavior  in  which 
the  will  and  intellect  and  heart  of  the  truly  good 
man  show  themselves.  The  one  is  the  general 
exhortation  to  devote  our  entire  selves  to  the 
culture  of  the  virtuous  life;  to  fix  the  will  coura- 
geously and  constantly  upon  it;  to  train  the  mind 
in  the  knowledge  of  it,  and  of  what  are  the  wise 
and  just  ways  of  manifesting  it;  and  to  let  the 
whole  heart  go  out  toward  and  into  it,  as  a  thing 
of  infinite  import  and  of  priceless  value.  All  this 
we  may  do  if  we  will,  and  thus  keep  the  first 
commandment.  But  the  second  is  much  the 
more  difficult  to  keep.  For  it  bids  us  somehow 
arrive  at  a  habit  of  reasonable  choices,  in  pursuit 

[188] 


THE  MANY  VIRTUES 

of  a  sort  of  harmony,  among  the  different  virtues. 
It  bids  us  be  kindly,  just,  and  true;  courageously 
but  wisely  kind;  hospitable  and  generous  without 
encouraging  pauperism;  severely  just,  but  by  no 
means  ready  to  exact  "the  pound  of  flesh." 
And  who  is  sufficient  for  these  things? 


[189] 


CHAPTER  VIII 
IS   THERE  ONE  ONLY   VIRTUE? 

NE  of  the  earliest  attempts  to  obtain  a 
clear  conception  of  the  essential  nature 
of  Virtue  is  that  Dialogue  of  Plato  in 
which  Socrates  is  represented  as  discussing  this 
subject  with  the  "Thessalian  Alcibiades,"  Meno. 
The  conversation  opens  with  the  question :  "Can 
you  tell  me,  Socrates,  whether  virtue  is  acquired 
by  teaching  or  by  practice;  or  if  neither  by  teach- 
ing nor  by  practice,  then  whether  it  comes  to 
man  by  nature,  or  in  what  other  way?"  But  at 
once  Socrates  turns  the  table  upon  his  interlocutor 
and  becomes  himself  the  questioner;  and  Socrates' 
question  is  pressed  to  the  front:  "What  really 
and  essentially  considered  is  this  virtue  to  which 
your  inquiry  as  to  the  how  of  its  coming  refers?" 
Meno's  answer  soon  gives  the  philosopher  suffi- 
cient ground  for  the  complaint  that,  while  he  has 
been  asking  to  have  "virtue  delivered  into  his 
hands  whole  and  unbroken,"  and  has  even  fur- 
nished "a  pattern"  (of  geometrical  demonstration) 
"according  to  which  an  answer  should  be  framed," 
the  whole  round  of  responses  has  amounted  only 
to  this:  "When  I  ask  you  for  one  virtue,  you 
present  me  with  a  swarm  of  them." 
[190] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

Can  there  be  any  other  result  than  that  which 
concludes  the  conversation  of  Socrates  and  Meno, 
when  the  quest  for  the  essential  nature  of  the 
virtuous  is  conducted  in  the  same  way?  We  do 
not  believe  that  there  can.  For  in  our  judgment, 
the  many  virtues  (almost  indefinitely  many  when 
looked  at  from  varying  points  of  view,  as  we  have 
seen  them  to  be)  cannot  be  reduced  to  any  one 
virtue  sufficiently  big  to  include  them  all.  Doubt- 
less this  fact  —  if  it  be  a  fact  —  not  only  increases 
the  difficulty  of  framing  any  theory  of  the  com- 
pletely virtuous  life,  to  which  every  moral  being 
must  conform  as  to  a  universal  pattern;  but  it 
also  very  greatly,  at  least  on  certain  particular 
occasions,  complicates  the  answer  to  the  inquiry, 
What  ought  I  (here  and  now  and  precisely)  to  do  ? 

There  is  indeed  pressing  demand,  hi  the  interests 
both  of  moral  philosophy  and  of  the  moral  man, 
that  we  should  discover  some  unifying  principle 
for  the  many  virtues,  some  universally  applicable 
rule  for  the  leading  of  the  virtuous  life.  Both 
principle  and  rule  ought  to  be  definite  and  intelli- 
gible, if  they  are  to  serve  the  purpose  which  this 
demand  seems  to  imply.  Ideals  that  rise  still 
higher  as  we  painfully  climb  toward  them;  faiths 
that  cling  to  the  despairing  soul,  or  to  which  the 
soul  desperately  clings;  aspiration  and  longing 
that  bow  in  adoration  before  the  grand  and 
beautiful  imaginations  which  the  future  triumphs 
of  moral  perfection  foreshadow  when  the  world-to- 
come  is  so  different  from  the  world-that-now-is; 

[191] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

religious  hopes  with  the  comfortable  resignation 
to  inevitable  evils,  or  that  spirit  of  resistless 
striving  against  every  form  of  evil  which  they 
engender  and  support;  —  all  these,  and  whatever 
else  of  similar  sort  the  enlarging  horizon  of  man's 
moral  consciousness  discerns  with  increasing  clear- 
ness, or  foreshadows  with  increasing  power,  do 
not  furnish  us  with  any  infallible  test  for  the  one 
quality  of  virtuousness  which  definitively  qualifies 
alike  all  the  many  virtues.  And  so  the  man  who 
really  amis  to  be  good,  according  to  an  outlined 
pattern  of  universal  goodness,  is  always  encounter- 
ing some  debate  like  this:  "I  want  to  be  a  brave 
and  truthful  man;  but  I  want  also  to  be  a  just 
and  kindly  and  courteous  man."  Or,  "I  want 
to  preserve  a  strong,  even  a  passionate  hatred 
of  injustice,  and  yet  I  want  always  to  have  a 
tender  regard  for  the  weaknesses  of  human 
nature,  and  a  pitying  comprehension  of  the 
strength  of  temptation  which  stresses  so  many 
others  in  forms  to  which  I  am  not  myself  sus- 
ceptible." 

What  is  this  one  only  virtue,  this  quality  of  the 
really  good  man  which  somehow  embraces  and 
guarantees  all  the  other  moral  excellences  of  the 
perfect  manhood?  There  is  no  such  lone  virtue. 
There  is  no  such  one  definable  excellence  of  moral 
manhood.  But  our  negative  answer  will  be 
itself  more  defensible  and  useful  if  we  add  a  few 
words  to  what  has  already  been  said  in  criticism 
of  the  several  affirmative  answers. 

[192] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

There  are  in  general  two  ways  of  attempting 
to  unify  the  particular  virtues  and  so  avoid  the 
fallacy  of  which  Socrates  complained  in  his  con- 
versation with  Meno:  "When  I  ask  you  for  one 
virtue,  you  present  me  with  a  swarm  of  them." 
The  first  of  these  identifies  the  virtuousness  or 
viciousness  of  all  conduct  with  some  one  feature 
or  aspect  of  conduct.  The  second  selects  one  of 
the  more  important  and,  so  to  say,  penetrating, 
of  the  many  virtues  and  insists  on  identifying  all 
the  virtues  with  this  one. 

Of  the  first  of  these  two  plans  for  saving  the 
troubles  of  reflection  to  the  man  who  is  puzzling 
over  the  problem  of  what  it  is  right  for  him  to  do, 
or  who,  having  acted,  is  perplexed  with  doubts  as 
to  whether  he,  after  all,  decided  to  do  just  the 
right  thing,  there  is  need  to  add  little  or  nothing 
to  what  has  already  been  said.  The  good  disposi- 
tion of  the  good  man,  or  his  good  motive,  or  his 
good  intention,  according  to  the  several  different 
forms  of  this  general  opinion,  secures  all  that  is 
demanded  for  the  perfection  of  his  virtuousness 
in  all  respects  and  in  all  forms  of  conduct.  It 
has  been  admitted  that  without  all  these  attitudes 
toward  the  life  of  virtue  no  title  to  have  its  reality 
can  be  maintained.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  no 
one  of  these  attitudes  compasses  the  complete 
nature  of  the  virtuous  life.  Disposition  that  is 
not  backed  up  by  courageous  and  constant  will 
is  not  all  of  virtue;  intention  that  is  not  warmed 
with  emotion  lacks  the  loveliness  of  perfect  good- 

[193] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

ness;  motive  that  simply  moves  but  does  not 
move  on  to  the  issue  in  some  wise  deed  of  will, 
with  an  intelligently  chosen  moral  good  in  view, 
does  not  describe  the  completed  process  of  living 
virtuously  and  thoroughly  well.  And  all  these 
manly  attitudes  taken  together  only  tell  us  how 
the  whole  man  ought  habitually  to  stand  in 
reference  to  each  of  the  many  virtues;  they  do 
not  tell  us  what  precisely  is  that  one  among  the 
many  virtues  which  essentially  includes  them  all. 

The  various  attempts  made  in  the  second  of  the 
two  ways  for  unifying  the  virtues  is  apparently 
the  more  successful;  at  least  it  must  be  accorded 
the  merit  of  aiming  more  definitely  at  the  mark 
which  requires  to  be  hit.  Of  these  attempts 
there  are  three  that  are  particularly  worthy  of 
consideration,  both  because  of  their  intrinsic 
nature  and  also  more  particularly  of  the  sugges- 
tiveness  of  their  historical  origin  and  of  the  social 
influences  under  which  they  have  flourished  most. 
These  are  —  to  choose  conspicuous  examples  — 
(1)  Aristotle's  conception  of  General  Justice,  from 
which  Plato's  notion  of  a  fourth  virtue  that  is  a 
sort  of  harmony  of  all  the  others  does  not  greatly 
diverge,  and  with  which  the  Stoical  doctrine  of 
the  Greek  philosophy  and  the  juridical  concep- 
tions of  morality  in  Mediaeval  and  modern  Europe 
are  not  essentially  discordant;  (2)  the  principle 
of  Loyalty,  especially  as  it  reached  its  highest 
pitch  of  exaltation  under  the  influences  which 
adopted  and  modified  the  Confucian  ethics  hi 

[194] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

feudal  Japan;  and  (3)  Benevolence  as  its  doctrine 
developed  under  Christian  influences  and  reached 
its  more  definite  expression  in  the  so-called  New- 
England  theology. 

That  all  the  virtues  cannot  be  absorbed  and 
described  under  any  such  conception  as  that  of 
General  Justice,  the  great  thinker  who  proposed 
the  term  hastens  to  admit.  Nor  does  his  admis- 
sion cover  all  the  exceptions  which  we  feel  com- 
pelled to  take.  Aristotle's  conception  of  general 
justice  accords  well  with  his  own  doctrine  that 
all  the  true  virtues  lie  between  two  extremes,  in 
the  position  of  a  mean  as  it  were;  but  this  doc- 
trine itself  does  not  accord  with  all  the  facts; 
and  so  far  as  it  does  partially  accord  with  the 
facts,  it  may  be  faced  about  and  made  to  con- 
trovert the  conception.  For  the  very  moderation 
which  gives  to  justice  its  claim  to  be  called  "gen- 
eral" is  the  virtue  of  wisdom;  and  that  justice 
may  establish  itself  as  actually  general,  it  must  be 
fortified  and  carried  over  obstacles  by  a  coura- 
geous and  constant  will.  Even  those  very  cus- 
toms and  laws  which  the  most  civilized  of  modern 
nations  have  enacted  in  the  interest  of  a  more 
general,  or  even  a  universal,  justice,  are  just  now 
as  never  before  proving  how  inadequate  they  are 
to  this  result,  until  they  are  largely  modified, 
or  in  many  instances  totally  changed,  under  the 
influences  of  various  forms  of  human  sympathy 
made  intelligent  and  effective  by  the  experience 
of  the  race.  But  to  call  all  this  reflective  and 

[195] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

intelligent  sympathy,  —  this  compassion,  pity, 
brotherly  kindness,  Christian  love, — a  species  of 
general  justice  may  gratify  the  desire  to  secure 
the  appearance  of  scientific  theory;  but  it  throws 
no  additional  light  on  the  nature  of  our  funda- 
mental ethical  problems,  and  is  of  scanty  or  no 
assistance  to  the  better  cultivation  of  the  virtues 
to  which  the  good-hearted  man  inclines. 

The  attempt  to  compass  all  the  virtues  under 
the  virtue  of  Loyalty  must  be  looked  upon  in  a 
somewhat  different  way.  So  long  as  the  loyalty 
is  directed  by  one  person  toward  another  person, 
or  by  one  group  or  party  of  persons  toward  a 
definitively  conceived  end  or  cause,  the  virtuous- 
ness  of  loyalty  is  highly  to  be  prized,  especially 
by  the  persons  to  whom  it  is  devoted,  as  well 
as  by  all  who  are  interested  in  the  success  of 
the  cause.  And  anyone  who  knows  the  hearts 
and  the  history  of  the  Japanese,  or  of  any  other 
peoples  among  whom  this  virtue  has  continued 
to  flourish  in  even  a  more  debilitated  way,  knows 
full  well  how  noble  and  efficient,  whether  the 
cause  be  good  or  bad,  this  one  virtue  certainly  is. 
But  he  also  knows  what  vices  have  flourished,  and 
what  crimes  have  been  committed,  in  its  name. 

In  the  lands  of  its  most  imperial  birth  and  most 
potent  and  irresistible  sway,  the  moral  principle 
of  loyalty  receives  its  crown  as  dominant  over  all 
the  other  virtues,  only  when  it  is  conceived  of  and 
made  the  rule  of  practice  in  a  quite  definite  way. 
For  the  servant,  it  means  unquestioning  and 

[196] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

unswerving  devotion  to  the  cause  of  his  samurai 
master;  for  the  samurai,  the  same  kind  of  service 
ready  on  demand  of  his  liege  lord,  the  daimyo  of 
his  clan;  for  the  child,  complete  submission  to  the 
will  of  the  parent,  with  all  possible  measure  of 
self-sacrificing  affection;  and  for  the  wife,  con- 
stant and  painstaking  effort  to  promote  the 
comfort  and  all  the  interests  of  her  domestic 
lord,  her  husband.  But  above  all,  and  for  all, 
it  secures  the  willingness  not  only,  but  the  eager 
desire,  to  serve  the  Emperor  or  the  country,  with 
a  fidelity  that  covets  rather  than  shrinks  from 
any  form  of  self-denial  or  suffering,  even  up  to,  or 
beyond,  the  limits  of  a  painful  death.  Even  as 
thus  limited,  and  being  limited  made  definite 
and  understandable,  loyalty  is  indeed  a  splendid 
virtue  and  is  the  mother  of  many  splendid  deeds. 
Even  as  thus  limited,  however,  this  virtue  is 
not,  in  itself  considered,  a  single  virtue,  but  one 
subtly  inclusive  of  several  others,  which  in  fact 
it  must  include  if  it  is  held  as  a  rule  of  life  to  be 
the  fine  thing  it  appears  to  be.  It  can,  indeed, 
scarcely  be  claimed  that  loyalty  must  be  supple- 
mented by  constancy  if  it  is  to  be  perfect  loyalty; 
for  the  two  words  "loyalty"  and  "constancy" 
represent  to  our  thought  nearly  the  same  attitude 
of  will  and  heart  toward  a  person  or  a  cause. 
Yet  even  in  this  case,  we  seem  not  to  speak  words 
without  meaning  when  we  demand  that  the  virtue 
of  loyalty  should  take  on  the  type  of  constancy 
in  order  that  it  may  remain  the  great  virtue 

.[197] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

which  it  essentially  is.  There  is  not  the  same 
difficulty  in  distinguishing  conceptions  that  for- 
ever deserve  to  be  distinguished,  when  we  say 
that  loyalty  itself  needs  to  be  wise,  and  tempered 
with  self-control,  and  just,  and  prepared  to  have 
some  sympathetic  and  kindly  feelings  toward 
other  persons  than  those  to  whom  our  loyalty  is 
sworn,  and  toward  other  causes  besides  the  one 
cause  that  most  of  all  elicits,  and  perhaps  unduly 
or  even  criminally  absorbs  our  devotion.  For, 
we  repeat  once  more,  that  unless  tempered  by 
these  other  virtues,  mere  loyalty,  whether  it  be 
to  a  person  or  to  a  cause,  and  whether  the  person 
or  the  cause  be  good  or  bad,  leads  as  surely  to 
adultery,  murder,  assassination,  rioting,  and  all 
manner  of  crimes,  as  it  does  to  many  admirable 
and  splendid  deeds. 

Granted,  however,  that  the  person  to  whom  we 
avow  loyalty  is  extraordinarily  wise  and  good, 
that  the  cause  we  have  espoused  is  in  itself  most 
worthy,  still  the  conception  of  this  virtue  cannot 
in  the  interests  of  clear  thinking  or  right  practice 
be  so  expanded  as  to  include  legitimately  all  the 
other  virtues.  As  we  keep  on  expanding,  in 
order  to  inflate  it  to  the  proportions  of  a  one  only 
virtue,  the  conception  itself,  like  a  soap  bubble, 
becomes  thinner  and  thinner  and  more  iridescent, 
until  it  bursts  under  the  pressure  of  the  matter-of- 
fact  atmosphere  which  ever  surrounds  our  daily 
practical  life.  This  is  what  really  happens  in 
Professor  Royce's  "The  Philosophy  of  Loyalty," 

[198] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

in  spite  of  the  subtlety  of  thought  and  charm  of 
style  which  belong  to  this,  as  to  all  the  work  of 
the  same  author.  For  when  we  inquire  as  to 
what,  more  precisely,  is  that  one  cause,  to  which 
if  one  is  quite  loyal,  one  has  all  the  virtues  and 
performs  all  one's  duties,  we  are  told  that  it  is 
"Loyalty  to  Loyalty"  (Lecture  III).  On  this 
point  of  cardinal  importance  the  author  says 
(p.  129f.):  "My  thesis  is  that  all  the  common- 
place virtues,  in  so  far  as  they  are  indeed  defensible 
and  effective,  are  special  forms  of  loyalty  to  loyalty, 
and  are  to  be  justified,  centralized,  inspired,  by 
the  one  supreme  effort  to  do  good,  namely  to 
make  loyalty  triumphant  in  the  lives  of  men." 
And,  again,  taking  the  point  of  view  which  em- 
phasizes what  is  obligatory  as  a  debt  to  others 
rather  than  what  is  demanded  in  compliance 
with  the  special  excellences  of  manhood,  Professor 
Royce  elsewhere  (p.  139f.)  declares:  "My  thesis 
is  that  all  those  duties  which  we  have  learned  to 
recognize  as  the  fundamental  duties  of  the  civilized 
man,  the  duties  that  every  man  owes  to  every  man,  are 
to  be  rightly  interpreted  as  special  instances  of 
loyalty  to  loyalty.  In  other  words,  all  the  recog- 
nized virtues  can  be  defined  in  terms  of  our 
concept  of  loyalty." 

Now  it  is  quite  impossible  to  get  the  real  mean- 
ing of  these  two  theses  —  the  one  of  which  ap- 
proaches the  problem  of  the  moral  life  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  nature  of  virtue,  and  the 
other  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  nature  of  duty 

[199] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

—  without  carefully  heeding  this  change  in  the 
conception  denoted  by  the  word  loyalty?  What 
is  the  real  meaning  of  the  second  of  the  two 
loyalties  which  enters  into  both  these  "theses"? 
What  it  is  to  be  loyal  to  a  person  or  to  a  cause, 
we  know  pretty  well.  We  know,  or  know  of,  a 
great  crowd  who  cannot  always  be  trusted  for 
their  constant  and  courageous  and  wise  loyalty; 
and  perhaps  we  know  a  good  few  who  might  join 
with  us  in  some  cause,  to  trust  each  other  — 
every  one  every  other  —  to  the  death.  But 
suppose  we  call  that  cause  "loyalty,"  what  then 
do  we  mean;  or,  rather,  what  does  the  author 
mean? 

This  loyalty,  to  which  we  must  be  loyal  if  we 
are  to  do  all  our  duties  and  exercise  all  our  virtues, 
is  implicitly,  though  not  quite  plainly  enough 
expressed  by  the  author  in  the  first  of  the  two 
theses  quoted  above.  It  is  the  one  "supreme 
effort  to  do  good,"  namely,  the  effort  "to  make 
loyalty  triumphant  in  the  lives  of  men."  But 
this  "loyalty  triumphant"  must  be  loyalty  in 
the  second  and  much  the  broader  of  its  two 
meanings.  By  an  easy  substitution,  then,  we  de- 
rive the  one  thesis  which  includes  both  the  others 
and  both  the  meanings  of  the  word  "loyalty." 
"The  supreme  effort  to  do  good,"  and  to  make  the 
same  supreme  effort  triumphant  in  the  lives  of 
others,  so  far  as  they  come  under  our  influence,  — 
this,  it  would  seem,  is  the  effort  which  in  practice 
secures  all  the  virtues  and  discharges  all  the  duties. 

[200] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

But  now  we  have  the  whole  discussion  lifted 
upon  another  and  higher  plane.  From  this  more 
exalted  point  of  view  we  see  that  a  certain  type 
of  personal  character  and  personal  life  implies 
an  effort  —  and  if  the  character  is  to  be  perfectly 
virtuous  and  the  duties  perfectly  done,  the  suc- 
cessful effort  —  always  to  do  that  which  is  good 
from  the  moral  point  of  view,  that  is,  always  to 
have  the  conduct  morally  right.  And  if  we  may 
change  the  word  "do"  to  the  much  more  pro- 
found and  stirring  word  "be"  —  with  the  under- 
standing, however,  that  there  is  no  being  for  any 
person  that  is  not  doing,  and  that  the  doings  of 
the  person  involve  all  his  being  (mind,  and  heart, 
and  will)  —  then  we  are  ready  to  agree  that,  if 
we  have  not  altogether  satisfactorily  defined, 
we  have  come  close  to  a  much  better  comprehen- 
sion of  what  is  the  very  essence  of  the  virtuous 
and  dutiful  life.  But  this  is  a  very  different,  and 
a  much  grander  and  more  worthy  thing,  than  to 
achieve  a  technical  resolution  of  all  the  virtues 
and  all  the  duties  into  one  big  enough  to  include 
them  all. 

Of  all  the  attempts  to  unify  the  virtues,  that 
which  would  gather  them  under  the  word  "Bene- 
volence," or  its  more  strictly  emotional  and 
religious  equivalent,  the  word  "love,"  would 
seem  most  entitled  to  credence.  Yet  when 
closely  examined,  it  ends  in  the  same  failure  which 
is  experienced  by  those  already  examined.  Bene- 
volence (bene-volence)  is  well-wishing;  and  if  we 

[201] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

always  wish  that  which  is  well  from  the  moral 
point  of  view,  backing  up  our  wish  with  a  coura- 
geous and  constant  will,  and  guiding  it  by 
wisdom  and  the  spirit  of  justice  and  kindness,  in 
ways  of  trueness,  —  why  then,  of  course,  we  are 
all  through  and  through  virtuous  and  gain  the 
merit  of  having  done  all  our  duties.  But  to  call 
this  adoption  of  a  term  in  so  expansive  a  meaning 
a  bona  fide  synthesis  of  a  many-sided  experience 
is  to  flatter  the  pretence  of  knowledge  rather  than 
to  contribute  to  its  reality.  The  same  thing  is 
true  —  and  even  more  abundantly  —  of  the  theo- 
logical phrasing  which  would  convert  all  moral 
goodness  into  the  "love  of  being  in  general." 
What  is  it  in  this  "being  in  general"  which  should 
excite  our  constant  and  affectionate  devotion? 
Do  the  "fowls  of  the  air "  share  in  this  claim  on 
our  love,  so  that  we  may  be  bound  to  feel  toward 
them  as  did  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  toward  "our 
dear  brethren  the  birds,"  including  the  crows 
that  steal  our  cherries  and  strip  our  corn?  Or 
must  such  affection  be  motived  and  sustained  by 
faith  in  a  Father  in  Heaven,  without  whose  notice 
not  even  one  of  the  worrisome  English  sparrows 
can  fall  to  the  ground?  And  are  not  the  flowers 
and  the  stars,  and  even  the  snakes  and  the  mos- 
quitoes and  the  deadly  microbes  of  a  thousand 
species,  also  a  part  of  the  universe?  Are  they 
not  all  important  fractions  of  that  vague  sphere, 
the  so-called  "being  in  general"? 

What    is    it  —  we    repeat  —  in    this    being-in- 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

general,  or  for  that  matter,  in  any  particular 
being,  toward  which  we  should  definitely  direct 
this  virtuous  love?  Is  it  the  capacity  for  happi- 
ness, irrespective  of  the  desert  of  it  on  moral 
grounds?  In  either  case  (Yes  or  No)  we  should 
be  treating  the  Universe  in  a  quite  different  way 
from  which  it,  so  to  say,  treats  itself,  whether  it 
is  to  be  regarded  as  under  the  rule  of  an  imper- 
sonal Dame  Nature,  or  of  the  gods  of  the  heathen 
Pantheon,  or  of  the  one  Father  in  Heaven  in 
whom  Jesus  placed  his  supreme  confidence. 

Even  more  impotent  to  accomplish  the  task  of 
unifying  the  virtues  is  the  claim  of  a  benevolence 
as  conceived  of  in  the  narrower  way  and  adopted, 
for  example,  by  Lotze  when  he  says:  "It  is  not 
the  effort  after  our  own,  but  only  that  for  an- 
other's felicity,  which  is  ethically  meritorious ;  — 
and,  accordingly,  that  the  idea  of  benevolence 
must  give  us  the  sole  supreme  principle  of  human 
conduct."  For  in  this  opinion  some  state  called 
"felicity"  is  made  the  supreme  end  of  all  human 
moral  endeavor.  Yet  the  well-wishing  which  tries 
to  contribute  toward  it  needs  as  much  as  does  any 
other  one  of  the  morally  right  attitudes  toward 
it,  the  perfection  which  can  only  be  contributed 
by  gaining  a  harmony  of  all  the  virtues,  or  essen- 
tial qualities  of  the  morally  perfect  manhood. 

And,  finally,  when  we  hear  that  magnificent 
summary  of  all  the  well-doing  on  which  the 
highest  personal  well-being  is  forever  and  unal- 
terably conditioned,  it  runs:  "Thou  shalt  love 

[203] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and  with  all 
thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  mind";  and,  "Thou 
shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  "For  on 
these  two  commandments  hang  all  the  law  and 
the  prophets."  That  is,  a  certain  attitude  of 
the  whole  personality  toward  all  other  personality 
is  itself  the  well-spring  of  moral  life,  from  which 
flow  forth  all  the  virtues  and  from  which  emanates 
all  the  rational  justification  for  all  the  duties. 
As  respects  the  practice  which  is  to  realize  this 
attitude  in  the  conduct  of  life  its  pattern  is  given 
in  the  exhortation:  "Be  ye  therefore  perfect, 
even  as  your  Father  in  Heaven  is  perfect." 

By  a  strikingly  different  process,  and  with  an 
infinitely  weaker  practical  power  for  moral  rescue 
and  moral  development,  the  "God-intoxicated" 
Jew  Spinoza  found  in  the  "love  of  God"  the 
source  of  all  knowledge,  righteousness,  and  joy. 
This  love  he  called  "intellectual"  in  order  to 
divest  it  of  every  trace  of  disturbing  and  degrad- 
ing influence  from  the  lower  emotions.  "He  who 
clearly  and  distinctly  understands  himself  and 
his  affects  rejoices,  and  his  joy  is  attended  with 
the  idea  of  God;  therefore  he  loves  God,  and 
(by  the  same  reasoning)  loves  Him  better,  the 
better  he  understands  himself  and  his  affects." 
With  such  an  one  there  can  be  no  hatred,  no 
sorrow,  no  envy,  no  selfish  desire,  —  not  even 
that  God  should  love  him  in  return.  "God  loves 
Himself  with  an  infinite  intellectual  love."  And 
in  man's  case,  "the  intellectual  love  of  the  mind 

[204] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

toward  God  is  the  very  love  with  which  He  loves 
Himself,  not  in  so  far  as  He  is  infinite,  but  in  so 
far  as  He  can  be  manifested  through  the  essence 
of  the  human  mind,  considered  under  the  form  of 
eternity  (sub  specie  ceternitatis) ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  intellectual  love  of  the  mind  toward  God  is 
part  of  the  infinite  love  with  which  God  loves 
Himself." 

But  even  in  the  pantheistical  conception  of 
Spinoza,  with  its  tendency  to  sink  all  finite  per- 
sonality in  the  gulf  of  an  impersonal  Infinite, 
the  intellectual  love  of  God  is  neither  a  virtue 
supreme  among  the  virtues,  nor  a  virtue  which 
includes  all  the  other  virtues;  it  is  a  "power  of 
the  intellect  over  its  own  affects,"  which  con- 
cerns "the  mind's  liberty,  the  blessedness  of 
philosophic  calm."  For  "this  blessedness  is  not 
the  reward  of  virtue,  but  is  virtue  itself." 

How  different  is  that  "love  of  God,"  which 
Jesus  calls  the  fulfilment  of  all  the  law  and  the 
prophets,  it  is  not  necessary  to  point  out  in 
detail;  but  of  it,  too,  the  same  thing  is  true. 
This  love  of  God  is  neither  the  supreme  virtue, 
or  a  "one  virtue"  among  the  many  virtues. 
"Thou  shalt  love"  and  "Be  perfect"  are,  the 
rather,  an  authoritative  summons  to  the  passionate 
and  determined  seizure  and  tireless  pursuit  of  the 
divine  ideal  of  personal  life.  They  remind  every 
person  what  is  the  type  of  the  obligation  which 
is  dormant  or  enforced  in  his  own  constitution  -as 
endowed  with  the  possibilities  of  a  limitless  moral 

[205] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

development.  In  the  more  tender  and  moving 
figure  of  speech  derived  from  the  most  potent, 
comprehensible,  and  benignant  experiences  of 
our  human  life,  these  words  say  to  every  child  of 
the  race:  "You  are  (potentially)  a  son  of  God. 
Become,  then,  in  very  truth  a  son  like  to  your 
divine  Father.  To  this  work  of  realization  devote 
all  your  powers  of  mind  and  heart  and  will.  The 
ideal  is  set  before  you  in  a  God  of  truth  and 
righteousness  and  harmony  of  all  moral  perfec- 
tions. Choose  the  ideal  and  make  it  your  very 
own  by  a  life-long,  courageous,  and  constant  — 
a  truly  loyal  and  devoted  effort  at  its  realization. 
This  is  the  pattern  of  the  perfect  Self,  the  Heavenly 
Father  of  all  men;  as  far  as  in  you  lies,  make 
yourself  like  this  Self." 

Returning  for  a  time  from  the  terms  in  which 
religion  solves  the  problem  of  a  principle  that 
shall  unify  all  the  claims  of  the  moral  life,  we 
may  summarize  as  follows  the  conclusion  in  which 
we  have  stated  what  we  believe  to  be  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  in  more  strictly  ethical 
terms:  "The  alleged  unity  of  virtue  thus  becomes 
the  fidelity  of  the  one  and  total  personality  - 
the  unitary  being  called  a  Moral  Self  —  to  the 
Moral  Ideal.  But  this  unity  is  subjective  and 
lies  in  the  nature  of  personality  rather  than  in 
the  nature  of  virtue  —  as  though  'Virtue'  could 
represent  anything  more  than  an  abstraction 
from  the  characteristic  tendencies  and  conscious 
states  of  this  Self.  For  any  objective  unity  we 

[206] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

must  look,  not  to  the  nature  of  virtue,  but  to  the 
nature  of  Reality."  We  discover,  then,  the  only 
possible  principle  of  unification  of  the  virtues 
when  we  understand  the  complex  nature  of  that 
unity  which  every  person  is,  as  considered  as 
one  of  many  like  himself,  as  one  of  a  society,  or 
socially  related  number  of  persons. 

Three  objections  to  this  view  which  finds  the 
essential  principle  of  the  virtuous  and  dutiful 
manhood  in  the  attempt  to  realize  in  oneself  the 
ideal  of  a  perfect  personal  life,  as  lived  in  actual 
relations  with  other  personal  lives,  will  probably 
be  among  the  earliest  to  occur,  the  most  per- 
sistent to  recur,  to  every  thoughtful  reader.  Of 
these  the  first  is  this :  The  ideal  of  personal  moral 
excellence,  which  we  must  imagine  to  belong  to 
the  divine  being,  is  absolutely  impossible  for 
finite  man.  To  say  that  the  essential  thing  for 
a  would-be  good  man  is  to  frame  for  himself  and 
persistently  pursue  a  type  of  living  to  which  he 
can  never  by  any  possibility  attain,  is  to  start 
him  off  after  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  foot  of  the 
rainbow,  and  to  doom  him  to  disappointment  at 
the  last,  if  not  at  the  very  first,  of  his  pursuit  of  a 
morally  complete  manhood. 

In  answer  to  this  objection,  two  or  three  con- 
siderations, among  the  many  that  might  be  urged, 
come  first  to  mind.  We  recall  the  very  beneficial 
influence,  the  enormous  power  for  uplift  and 
higher  degrees  of  good,  which  belongs  to  all 
ideals;  but  in  some  special  way,  to  moral  ideals. 

[207] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

For  the  very  message  of  the  moral  consciousness 
is  this:  "You  ought  to  be  better  than  you  are, 
and  it  is  worth  your  while  at  once  to  try."  With- 
out this  message  no  moral  development,  no 
strictly  moral  life,  would  be  possible  for  either 
the  individual  person  or  for  a  race  of  persons. 
It  is  afeo  essential  to  the  benign  force  of  every 
ideal  that,  as  it  is  approached,  it  rises  higher  and 
is  still  beyond  our  immediate  grasp.  The  woe 
is  not  upon  the  man  who  does  not  easily  attain 
his  ideal,  but  upon  the  man  who  has  no  ideal,  or 
who  quickly  becomes  discouraged  in  its  pursuit. 
To  continue  moral  one  must  rise  with  one's  ideal. 

If  the  command  were  to  be  perfectly  like  God 
in  knowledge,  power,  and  wisdom,  and  limitless 
benevolence,  to  try  would  be  folly,  to  claim 
success  would  be  blasphemy.  Or  if  anyone  does 
not  like  to  mention  the  Divine  Being,  under 
whatever  worthy  form  of  imagination  presented, 
let  him  frame  a  picture  of  finite  personal  perfec- 
tion in  all  these  desirable  qualities.  For  although 
some  knowledge,  some  power,  some  benevolence 
are  certainly  indispensable  for  any  degree  of 
worthy  moral  development;  the  perfection  after 
the  pattern  of  the  Infinite,  of  these  qualities  is  not 
necessary  for  the  pursuit,  or  even  for  the  attain- 
ment, of  the  perfection  of  human  and  finite 
goodness.  The  ideal  of  perfect  moral  character 
in  man,  and  of  the  conduct  amid  human  affairs 
which  progressively  realizes  this  advancing  and 
rising  ideal,  neither  implies  nor  demands  equality 

[208] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

with  God.  It  implies  and  demands  only  the 
intelligent  and  set  purpose  to  pursue  this  ideal, 
as  a  supremely  valuable  and  worthy  good,  with 
that  spirit  of  loyalty  and  self-denial,  and  of 
quick,  wide,  and  effective  human  sympathies, 
which  the  enlightened  moral  consciousness  ap- 
proves and  commands.  Or,  to  return  to  the 
familiar  figure  of  speech  so  potent  in  the  history 
of  all  the  greater  religions,  but  especially  in  the 
religion  of  Jesus:  "The  true  son  of  God"  does 
not  "grasp  after"  equality  with  his  Heavenly 
Father;  but  neither  is  he  satisfied  to  dream  of  a 
sort  of  absorption  into  the  Infinite  from  whose 
unthinking  bosom  he  likes  to  imagine  he  may 
have  come.  He  aims  at  a  development  of  his 
own  personality,  in  the  work  of  assisting  others 
of  his  brethren  to  a  like  development,  which  shall 
make  the  entire  family  like  the  Father,  —  ethically 
true  and  perfected  sons  after  the  One  Spirit  who 
sets  and  inspires  and  cultivates  the  family  type. 
And  in  this  task  of  self-realization,  he  quite 
confidently  believes  he  will  not  be  stinted  in 
tune,  unaided  in  struggle,  or  unforgiven  for  his 
failures  and  mistakes. 

But  against  this  all-inclusive  duty  and  virtue 
of  trying  to  "live  up  to"  an  ideal  of  self -develop- 
ment it  has  also  been  urged  in  objection  that  it  is, 
after  all,  only  a  more  refined  type  of  Selfishness, 
—  that  insistent  bane  and  hindrance  to  all  genuine 
and  lovable  morality.  The  objection  involves  a 
complete  misunderstanding  of  the  view  to  which 

[209] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

it  raises  itself  in  opposition.  For  the  Ideal  which 
sets  us  the  pattern  is  the  vital  Source  of  all  un- 
selfishness; it  is  the  ideal  of  the  Spirit,  the  spring 
of  all  the  spiritual  forces  that  struggle  and  suffer 
in  self -forgetful  ways  for  the  good  of  the  race. 
And  every  person  may  say,  —  indeed  every  true 
son  of  God  must  say,  —  it  is  the  obligation,  and 
the  summing-up  of  the  virtues,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity, joyfully,  or  at  the  worst  tenaciously,  to 
be  held  by  me  as  a  person,  to  follow,  and  to  aid 
others  to  follow,  this  morally  uplifting  and  benefi- 
cent ideal. 

Once  more,  it  is  objected  to  this  principle  for 
the  unification  of  the  virtues,  or,  the  rather,  for 
giving  unity  to  personality  in  striving  to  har- 
monize and  adapt  the  virtues  in  the  actual  condi- 
tions of  human  life,  that  it  is  too  vague  to  be 
firmly  grasped  by  the  understanding,  and  too 
elusive  to  serve  for  a  guide  to  the  conduct  of  life. 
For  are  we  not  trying  to  afford  some  workable 
answer  to  the  inquiry,  for  each  individual,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  And  how  shall  so  general  and 
indefinite  a  thing  as  this  so-called  universally 
imperative  and  supremely  worthy  ideal  (even 
admitting  its  obligatory  and  supremely  worthy 
character)  assist  me  greatly  in  shaping  my  con- 
duct sharply  to  the  peculiar  exigencies  of  my 
daily  life? 

But  at  this  point  we  must  call  our  attention, 
even  more  penetratingly  and  persistently  than 
hitherto,  to  the  mysterious  Individuality  of  all 

[210] 


IS  THERE  ONE  ONLY  VIRTUE? 

human  personal  life.  This  ideal,  like  all  other 
human  ideals,  —  scientific,  economic,  social,  as 
well  as  moral  and  religious,  —  confessedly  has 
only  the  characteristics  of  a  type.  And,  indeed, 
if  all  persons  were  alike3  in  their  moral  constitution, 
ethical  opinions,  and  moral  practices,  how  could 
a  community,  a  society,  a  racial  brotherhood,  or 
finally,  a  Heavenly  Kingdom,  be  constituted  and 
developed  at  all?  Individuality  is  of  the  very 
essence  of  personality.  Should  two  individuals  be- 
come exactly  alike  within  and  without,  by  copying 
each  other  or  some  third  individual,  both  would 
have  lost  their  individuality,  and  neither  would 
have  become  a  true  person.  Have  we  not  said 
that  personality  is  a  development,  starting  under 
conditions  over  which  the  individual  had  no 
control,  but  tending  forward,  under  a  growing 
but  always  somewhat  closely  restricted  self- 
control,  to  the  making  or  the  marring,  the  perfect- 
ing or  the  spoiling,  of  a  person,  an  individual 
Self?  Two  morally  perfect  good  men  would  not 
be,  could  not  be,  in  their  goodness  alike. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  moral  Ideal, 
then,  the  practical  answer  to  the  question,  What 
ought  I  to  do?  must  be  given  for  me  in  some  such 
way  as  the  following:  "Make  yourself  one  good 
man,  in  pursuit  of  such  a  form  of  the  ideal  type 
of  the  perfect  moral  life  as  is  consistent  with  your 
capacities  and  opportunities."  To  be  such  a 
"one  good  man,"  one  great  thing,  perhaps  the 
greatest  of  all  things,  is  that  you  should  be  de- 

[211] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

votedly  helpful  to  others  in  their  efforts  to  realize 
their  own  individual  better  selves.  But  be  good 
to  others  in  your  own  good  way.  Only  make  it 
after  your  conception  of  the  divine  type.  There- 
fore, —  we  repeat,  —  for  you,  as  a  summary  of 
the  duties  first  in  hand,  and  a  promise  of  the 
virtues  to  be  cultivated  and  brought  to  a  harmoni- 
ous development  in  the  future,  the  insistent  thing 
for  the  moment  is  that  you  choose  some  ideal  of  a 
Self  for  your  very  own;  and  then  that  you  should 
devote  yourself  to  the  realizing  of  that  ideal 
amidst  the  social  and  other  conditions  which  are 
ordained  for  you. 


[212] 


CHAPTER  IX 

CUSTOM,  OTHER  LAWS,  AND  THE 
MORAL  LAW 


the  person  who  is  constantly  and  con- 
H  sistently  loyal  to  the  moral  ideal,  as  he 
J^  conceives  of  this  ideal  in  a  manner  fitted 
to  his  individual  capacities  and  opportunities, 
the  most  puzzling  and  intellectually  difficult  of 
all  his  moral  problems  arise  from  quite  unex- 
pected sources.  To  be  brave  and  constant  in 
his  high  pursuit  may  have  become  to  him  a 
simple  matter  of  course.  That  he  is  to  make  use 
of  all  his  intellectual  resources  in  the  interests  of 
the  moral  good  of  his  fellows,  and  that  in  doing 
this  he  is  to  keep  all  his  own  appetites,  desires, 
and  lower  ambitions  under  strict  control,  may 
long  since  have  ceased  to  be  a  mooted  question. 
He  no  longer  even  dreams  of  claiming  "rights"  of 
indulgence,  whether  of  the  so-called  "natural" 
order  or  guaranteed  by  statute  law,  that  are  in 
themselves  or  in  their  practical  working  plainly 
for  the  moral  detriment  or  moral  debasement  of 
society.  The  habitual  temptation  to  lying,  de- 
ceit, and  the  use  of  subterfuges,  or  to  the  practice 
of  hypocrisy,  has  given  place  to  a  spontaneous 
and  almost  automatic  candor,  an  instinct  for 

[213] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

frankness  rather  than  for  selfish  or  cowardly 
concealment.  Over  all,  and  in  and  through  all, 
the  fragrant  spirit  of  kindness  is  odorous,  the 
genial  shining  of  the  spirit  of  sympathy  shows 
luminous.  This  is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  portrait  of 
the  ideally  good  man;  but  it  is  by  no  means  a 
wholly  fanciful  picture.  There  are  thousands  of 
human  beings  who,  if  they  have  not  already 
attained,  are  striving  with  a  fair  measure  of 
success  in  the  daily  effort  to  live  in  accordance 
with  this  ideal.  And  it  is  not  the  specific  desire 
to  commit  a  breach  in  any  of  the  virtues,  or  to 
yield  to  any  species  of  temptation,  which  causes 
them  the  moments  of  perplexity,  the  trials  of 
mental  strife. 

The  sources  of  such  trials  for  men  of  ideals  are 
chiefly  three:  and  these  are  the  Customs  which, 
without  their  permission,  much  more  without 
their  express  authorization,  are  dominating  their 
social  surroundings;  the  Laws,  in  the  making  of 
which  they  have  taken  no  part  and  many  of  which 
have  been  enacted  in  opposition  to  their  better 
moral  judgment;  and  strange  to  tell,  —  perhaps 
above  all,  —  the  conception  of  the  Moral  Law 
which  has  been  bred  in  them,  or  which  has  been 
worked  out  by  themselves  in  the  more  solitary 
exercises  of  their  reflective  powers,  or  imbibed 
from  writers  on  morality  and  religion.  These 
three  are  the  chief  sources  of  the  good  man's 
perplexities. 

There  is  one  qualification  which  belongs  to  all 

[214] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

three  of  these  sources  of  moral  perplexity,  and 
which  makes  their  suggestions  the  more  doubtful, 
their  claim  to  control  more  galling,  the  more 
advanced  toward  the  freedom  of  the  ideally 
perfect  life  the  individual  person  has  become. 
Customs,  laws,  and  current  ethical  conceptions,  are 
all  always  and  inevitably  behind  the  best  moral 
consciousness  of  their  own  time.  Their  conserva- 
tive value  cannot  be  denied;  but  neither  can 
their  power  to  place  under  fetters  the  soul  that 
aspires  toward  the  ideal  of  personal  life.  For 
this  ideal  can  only  attain  its  fullest  realization 
in  the  environment  of  an  ideal  constitution  of 
society.  But  the  inquiry,  What  ought  I  to  do? 
does  not  mean,  What  do  I  imagine  I  shall  feel 
like  doing  if  I  ever  get  into  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven,  after  this  Kingdom  itself,  the  social 
Ideal,  has  fully  come?  It  means,  the  rather,  this: 
What  shall  I,  a  common  and  in  no  wise  extraordi- 
nary sort  of  man  or  woman,  do  in  this  sad,  actual 
entanglement,  good  with  evil,  always  and  every- 
where (it  almost  seems  "world  without  end"),  of 
human  affairs?  The  prevailing  customs  and 
laws  do  not  answer  my  question.  They  are  all 
behind  the  very  best  moral  ideals  even  of  this 
present  still  imperfect  age. 

Similar  fault  is  to  be  found  even  with  the 
current  conceptions  of  the  so-called  Moral  Law; 
and  it  is  likely  the  good  man  must  sometimes 
confess:  "I  am  already  troubled  by  the  dawning 
in  my  own  moral  consciousness  of  the  conviction 

[215] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

that  I  have  myself  been  far  indeed  from  con- 
ceiving aright  the  very  nature  of  moral  law;  not 
to  say  that  I  have  been  holding  to  a  fictitious 
summary  of  the  features  of  the  morally  ideal 
personality  as  compassed  by  any  conceivable 
form  of  stating  or  keeping  *A  Law."1 

In  the  interests  of  morally  right  relations  to 
the  customs  of  the  times,  some  things  may  be 
said  without  stopping  for  much  discussion  or 
careful  picking  of  words.  In  all  conditions  and 
stages  of  social  development,  the  prevalent  cus- 
toms, or  ways  of  behavior  prescribed  for  the 
individual  by  social  conventions,  are  largely 
relics  of  a  past,  —  partly  good,  partly  evil,  and 
mostly  now  become  not  quite  appropriate  as 
judged  by  a  strictly  moral  standard.  Indeed, 
not  a  few  of  the  customs  still  prevailing  in  the 
most  highly  civilized  countries  have  their  origin 
lost  in  a  remote  antiquity.  Springing  from  a 
superstitious  belief  in  many  gods,  they  remain  to 
be  openly  practised  but  secretly  laughed  at  by 
those  who  do  not  believe  in  any  God.  Originat- 
ing in  the  churchly  and  Christian  view  of  the 
sacredness  of  marriage,  they  are  now  sought  after 
for  the  sake  of  social  appearances  by  men  and 
women  who  have  not  the  slightest  sincere  inten- 
tion of  keeping  the  vows  they  were  designed  to 
enforce.  In  Old  Japan  the  commission  of  hara- 
kiri  was  the  brave  and  honorable  gentleman's 
prescribed  way  of  punishing  himself  when  he  had 
behaved  dishonorably,  or  of  immolating  himself 

[216] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

in  the  interests,  or  by  the  express  command,  of 
the  one  to  whom  he  owed  the  extremes  of  the 
virtue  of  loyalty.  The  custom  still  lingers  with 
something  of  its  ancient  title  to  be  an  exhibition 
of  virtue;  but  more  and  more  it  is  being  under- 
stood by  the  morally  most  competent,  as  in  most 
cases  a  brave  but  horrible  way  of  committing 
the  coward's  crime  of  suicide.  The  duel  was  in 
Mediaeval  Europe  one  of  the  several  ways  of 
appealing  to  a  divine  court  for  a  judgment  as  to 
who  had  the  moral  right  on  his  side  in  the  issue 
of  a  mortal  conflict.  In  the  German  army  it  is 
still  in  the  grotesque  and  morally  indefensible 
condition  of  being  a  sort  of  mixture  of  malicious 
murder  and  obligatory  debt  of  honor;  while  the 
clearer  eye  and  saner  consciousness  of  the  best  of 
modern  society  looks  upon  it  as  a  detestable  form 
of  crime,  not  even  having  behind  it  the  motive  of 
a  genuine  but  mistaken  sense  of  honor.  But 
these  are  extreme  cases  and  are  comparatively 
unlikely  to  occasion  any  prolonged  mental  per- 
plexity for  one  who  is  devoted  to  the  realization 
of  the  ideal  of  moral  personality. 

With  the  great  majority  of  the  customs  which 
daily  greet  one  for  choice  to  follow  or  to  reject, 
the  case  is  by  no  means  so  plain.  Many  of  them 
seem  innocent  enough  even  after  we  have  dis- 
covered that  the  significance  originally  given  to 
them  has  largely  or  wholly  departed.  Shall  I 
rise  to  give  my  seat  to  the  woman  who  is  standing 
in  the  street-car,  when  her  physical  ability  to 

[217] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

stand  seems  quite  equal  to  mine,  and  the  conduct 
of  her  sex  has  robbed  me  of  the  conventional 
feeling  of  chivalry?  I  know  that  I  am  weak  and 
tired;  but  I  cannot  inquire  after  the  state  of  her 
health;  for  that,  too,  would  be,  however  well- 
meant  and  kindly,  an  unpardonable  breach  of 
the  customary  and  the  conventional;  it  might 
even  land  me  in  the  police  court  or  in  the  city 
jail.  I  must  be  "punctilious"  here. 

The  scrupulous  man  is  always  uncovering 
customs,  to  which  the  great  majority  conform, 
but  about  which  his  conscience  is  by  no  means 
altogether  clear.  As  a  corporation  lawyer  may 
I  follow  the  methods  in  practice  which  made 
Senator  X  so  famous?  As  a  physician,  may  I 
adopt  the  code  of  professional  ethics  which 
justifies  me  in  telling  falsehoods  to  my  patients 
when  I  judge  that  this  will,  at  the  least  for  the 
time,  secure  them  against  unfavorable  mental 
disturbance;  or  may  I,  under  any  circumstances, 
deny  them  the  right  to  make  preparation  — 
economic,  social,  or  moral  and  religious  —  for 
approaching  death?  As  a  druggist,  shall  I  deal 
in  quack  medicines;  or  as  a  grocer,  in  foods  that 
I  know  are  adulterated?  May  I  continue  to 
hold  stocks  in  a  company  whose  policy,  in  spite 
of  my  repeated  protests,  I  know  not  to  be  strictly 
honest,  however  so  contrived  as  to  escape  the 
law?  May  I  shirk  my  work  in  compliance  with 
the  customs  of  the  labor  union  to  which  I  have 
pledged  my  support,  or  in  compliance  with  orders 

[218] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

and  threats  of  the  ignorant  and  selfish  youngster 
who  is  its  acknowledged  leader?  When  in  Con- 
stantinople or  Beirut  shall  I  bribe  the  officials  as 
the  customary  and  the  only  way  of  securing  a 
portion  of  justice;  and  on  which  side  shall  my 
conscience  lean  when  making  out  returns  for  the 
officials  of  some  home  port?  But  why  multiply 
instances?  Daily  living  is  made  up  of  them; 
and  the  inner  life  cannot  be  withdrawn  from  their 
influence,  scarcely  from  their  dominance.  To 
do,  or  not  to  do,  as  others  do?  —  that  is  indeed 
the  question,  which  is  fraught  with  infinite  per- 
plexities and  with  no  small  perils  to  the  soul  of 
righteous  intention.  It  is  not  so  wonderful  after 
all,  that  the  most  shallow  and  mischievous 
of  all  ethical  theories  has  deliberately  confounded 
the  current  mores  with  morality,  the  prevailing 
customs  with  the  duties  and  the  virtues  of  the 
truly  regulated  personal  life. 

But  the  truly  regulated  moral  life  can  never  be 
regulated  from  without.  The  sources  of  its 
commandments  must  be  found  in  its  own  Self, 
however  these  sources  may  have  been  originally 
shaped  by  heredity  or  influenced  by  environment. 
What  is  customary  can  never  be  identified  with 
what  is  truly  moral.  What  others  do  —  even  if 
it  be  all  the  others  —  can  never  be  made  the  final 
authorization  for  what  I  do  as  an  individual 
person,  a  lonely  Self.  And  this  is  chiefly  because 
I  can  never  be  a  strictly  lonely  Self.  I  can  never 
take  myself  out  of  a  Universe  which  must  make 

[219] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

its  last  appeal  to  me  on  the  side  of  the  dutiful  and 
virtuous  life,  as  Itself  moral  to  the  core. 

Now  it  is  evident  that  the  man  who  is  loyal  to 
the  moral  ideal  can  neither  disregard  —  much 
less  flout  at  custom  —  nor  make  custom  his 
unfailing  guide  and  the  master  of  his  deeds. 
And,  indeed,  no  man  is  foolish  or  bad  enough  to 
do  precisely  this.  For  while  most  men  do  not 
like  to  make  an  open  breach  with  the  conventions 
that  prevail  in  their  line  of  labor,  business,  or 
profession,  or  in  their  social  set,  or  religious  com- 
munion, they  are  apt  to  plead  custom  as  an 
authority  when  it  seems  for  their  private  advan- 
tage to  follow  it,  and  then  secretly  depart  from  it 
when  private  interests  draw  them  away.  Thus 
does  custom  become  not  only  the  arbiter  of 
righteousness,  but  also  the  scape-goat  of  many 
sins, — particularly  of  the  social  kind. 

It  is  not  possible  to  be  really  good  and  pay  no 
attention  whatever  to  the  prevalent  customs  and 
to  the  obligation  to  decide  in  conduct  for  or 
against  obedience  to  the  behavior  they  impose. 
Each  good  person  when  perfected  will  indeed  be 
a  quite  particular  kind  of  a  Self.  If  one  pleases 
oneself  with  the  phrase,  one  may  say  "I  am 
bound,  strive  against  it  as  I  may,  to  be  quite 
'peculiar."'  Only  a  minority  of  folk,  however, 
really  enjoy  being  called  peculiar.  To  be,  or  even 
to  be  thought,  peculiar  in  this  sense  is  quite  a 
definite  limitation  of  one's  influence  for  good. 
To  hand  out  good  deeds  in  an  acceptable  way  with 

[220] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

one  hand,  and  with  the  other  snub  everybody  for 
adhering  to  the  customs  of  the  day,  would  be  to 
make  one  hand  destroy  all  the  effectiveness  of 
the  other.  Almost  every  established  custom  is 
on  occasion  subject  to  criticism;  but  to  be  always 
criticising  the  behavior  that  custom  has  ordained 
is  to  doom  to  failure  all  effort  to  elevate  the 
custom. 

We  will  say,  then,  that  the  ethical  idealist  (let 
us  frankly  call  him  that)  will  succeed  as  his 
wisdom  matures  through  reflective  treatment  of 
experience,  and  as  his  tact  in  matters  of  mores 
and  related  morality  becomes  more  delicate  and 
sure,  in  dividing  most  of  the  customs,  which 
constitute  so  large  a  portion  of  his  ethical  environ- 
ment, into  about  three  classes.  These  may  be 
roughly  defined  as  (1)  customs  with  which  one 
may  habitually  conform  with  a  good  conscience 
by  putting  the  right  understanding  and  disposition 
into  them;  (2)  customs  which  seem  so  essentially 
tainted  with  immorality,  whatever  their  origin  or 
original  character  may  have  been,  that  one  must 
either  quietly  ignore  or  openly  oppose  them;  and 
(3)  customs  which  still  remain  on  the  border  line, 
and  with  reference  to  which  one's  conduct  must 
adjust  itself  perhaps  in  varying  ways,  according 
to  varying  details  of  circumstances  or  of  the 
exigencies  of  the  particular  case.  Thus,  the 
answer  of  the  man  who  is  faithful  to  his  moral 
ideal  when  he  faces  the  problem  proposed  in  the 
form  "Shall  I  do  as  the  others  of  the  majority  do? " 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

will  sometimes  be:  "Yes,  of  course.  Why  not?"; 
sometimes,  "No,  of  course  not,  even  if  others 
do";  and  sometimes  "That  depends  on  circum- 
stances, and  what  is  your  view  about  that?"  In 
a  word,  the  good  man  will  make  the  keeping  or 
the  breaking  of  the  custom  a  matter  of  humane 
and  genial  sympathy  with  his  fellows;  but  he 
will  never  place  himself  under  custom's  control. 
And  the  more  custom  solicits  him,  because  it  is 
plainly  on  the  side  of  his  selfish  advantage,  the 
more  carefully  will  he  consider  the  moral  quality 
of  its  claims. 

The  attitude  of  the  man  who  seeks  intelligently 
to  realize  his  ideals  in  the  conduct  of  his  daily  life, 
toward  the  laws,  whether  natural  or  enacted  by 
man  (common  or  statute)  under  all  the  existing 
forms  of  civic  organization,  is  compassed  about 
with  problems,  some  of  which  are  the  same  as, 
and  others  distinctly  different  from,  those  imposed 
upon  him  by  the  customs  that  form  his  social 
environment.  Indeed,  the  distinction  between 
custom  and  law  as  different  ways  'of  regulating 
conduct  is  not  always  perfectly  clear.  By  "a 
law"  we  understand  some  "norm  of  voluntary 
action"  which,  unlike  the  customs  of  the  coun- 
try, is  enforced  by  an  express  command  and  by 
a  definite  penalty  or  punishment  for  non-con- 
formity. But  there  are  many  customs  for  the 
non-conformity  with  which  both  the  warning 
injunction  and  the  threatened  punishment  are 
quite  as  definite  and  sure  to  be  applied  as  in 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

cases  of  failure  to  observe  the  provisions  of  so- 
called  "common  law."  Even  not  a  few  of  the 
regulations  which  have  been  for  years  hidden  or 
only  rarely  referred  to,  in  the  statute  books, 
have  lost  all  legal  quality.  And  indeed,  there 
are  certain  classes  of  laws  —  for  example,  those 
regulating  tariff,  taxation,  riparian  and  other 
similar  rights  —  where  time-honored  custom  has 
become  a  truly  essential  feature  of  the  statute. 

There  are  few  conceptions  less  clearly  under- 
stood, both  by  the  so-called  "scientists"  and  by 
the  unscientific  multitude,  than  that  covered  by 
the  term  Law.  And  what  is  it,  indeed,  to  be 
governed  by  law,  or  —  to  vary  the  expression  — 
to  be  under  "the  reign  of  law?"  So  far  as  at 
present  concerns  our  subject,  the  answer  may  be 
given  in  something  like  the  following  terms 
("Philosophy  of  Conduct,"  p.  383):  "Of  all  the 
several  forms  which  the  conception  of  law  can 
assume,  that  which  it  wears  within  the  sphere  of 
ethics  is  most  distinctly  an  affair  of  personality. 
Natural  laws  are  indeed  only  the  observed  or  the 
inferred  ways  of  the  behavior  of  things;  the 
things  themselves  are  not  regarded  as  consciously 
conforming  to  the  laws.  The  whole  representa- 
tion terminates  in  the  mere  fact  that  so  the 
things  behave.  But  human  laws  are  objectively 
formulated  rules,  to  which  conformity  is  expected 
and  enforced  by  an  appeal  to  interest  of  some 
sort.  Both  natural  laws  and  human  laws  enter 
the  sphere  of  morality,  and  obedience  to  them 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

becomes  virtuous  and  disobedience  becomes  a 
vice,  only  when  the  external  expression  of  the 
formula  presents  itself  within  the  consciousness 
of  some  Self  as  a  form  of  behavior  which  ought 
to  be  rendered,  under  certain  social  relations,  to 
oneself  or  to  other  selves.  Thus  the  idea  of 
an  "external  exponent,"  -to  borrow  the  ex- 
pressive phrase  of  Professor  T.  H.  Green  —  is 
undoubtedly  connected  in  the  imagination  of 
mankind  with  the  sanctions  belonging  to  most 
laws  that  are  conceived  of  as  distinctly  moral." 

It  is  customary,  especially  with  those  who  hold 
the  more  purely  mechanical,  not  to  say  material- 
istic conceptions  of  Nature,  to  regard  man  as 
inexorably  bound  by  natural  law,  the  slave  of  its 
resistless  forces,  the  victim  of  its  blind  Will.  If 
this  is  so,  and  if  —  this  being  so  —  we  make 
thorough  work  with  the  conviction;  then  the 
keeping  or  the  breaking  of  the  "laws  of  nature" 
would  be  in  no  essential  feature  a  moral  affair. 
The  man  who  violated  or  disregarded  these  laws 
in  the  most  reckless  way  could  not  properly  be 
considered,  for  that  alone,  either  a  foolish  or  a 
vicious  man  in  the  ethical  meaning  of  these 
opprobrious  terms.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  we 
do  not  naturally  feel  or  talk  in  that  way.  We 
regard  nature's  laws  as  indications  of  how  a  man 
ought  to  act;  so  that,  on  the  one  hand  he  may 
keep  on  good  terms  with  Mother  Nature,  and  on 
the  other  may  be,  among  her  children,  something 
more  than  a  mere  beast.  And  instead  of  man's 

[224] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

being  the  slave,  the  unwilling  victim  of  natural 
laws,  in  those  cases  where  the  keeping  or  the 
breaking  of  them  is  most  distinctly  an  affair  of 
moral  concernment,  the  individual  is  scarcely 
less  free  to  say  what  attitude  he  will  take  toward 
them  than  to  choose  whether  he  will  keep  or 
break  this  particular  social  custom  or  statute  law. 
We  cannot  alter  the  stars  in  their  courses;  but 
we  can  apply  their  steadiness  or  observed  aberra- 
tions in  their  courses  to  the  navigation  of  the 
ocean;  and  the  navigator  who  does  not  do  his 
best  in  making  this  application  is  not  free  from 
guilt  of  the  consequences.  We  cannot  change 
the  relations  between  asphyxiating  or  combustible 
gases  and  the  lungs  and  flesh  of  living  animals; 
but  we  can  change  the  greed  and  the  carelessness 
that  destroy  the  lives  of  thousands  of  miners.  We 
have  not  yet  succeeded  in  rendering  innocuous  the 
germs  of  typhus,  or  typhoid  fever,  or  diphtheria, 
or  bubonic  plague;  but  we  can  stop  the  wicked 
pollution  of  water  courses,  the  viciously  ignorant 
and  careless  uncleanliness  of  our  drains  and  milk 
cans,  the  lying  in  the  interests  of  business  pros- 
perity that  delays  knowledge  and  blocks  prompt 
measures  of  a  sanitary  and  therapeutic  order. 
Indeed  it  is  the  immoral  attitude  toward  natural 
laws,  even  where  ignorance  renders  conduct  less 
culpable,  that  is  the  source  of  more  untimely 
death  and  prolonged  suffering  than  typhoons, 
earthquakes,  and  volcanoes.  And  when  we  add 
sloth,  improvidence,  and  oppressive  and  selfish 

[225] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

government,  to  the  long  list  of  economic  vices 
(vices  rather  than  mistakes)  we  uncover  the  causes 
of  the  misery  of  famine;  while  the  righting  of 
the  economic  wrongs  that  disgrace  our  modern 
civilization  is  the  principal  present-day  task  of 
morals  and  religion. 

On  the  whole,  then,  a  man's  chances  of  achieving 
goodness  of  the  moral  order,  whether  he  secure 
many  material  goods,  or  not,  are  quite  equal  in 
the  struggle  with  nature  to  those  procurable 
under  the  common  and  statute  laws  of  the  most 
liberally  civilized  modern  countries.  It  is  rather 
easier  to  be  a  child  of  God  under  the  dominion  of 
natural  law  than  a  thoroughly  good  man  by  way 
of  regarding  all  human  laws  as  a  trustworthy 
"external  exponent"  of  essential  morality.  In- 
deed, human  laws  are  distinctly  not  that.  Trust- 
worthy external  exponents  of  morality,  they 
never  have  been,  and  never  can  become.  But 
the  attitude  of  the  good  man  toward  the  laws, 
whether  he  had  anything  to  do,  directly  or  in- 
directly, with  the  making  of  them,  and  whether 
he  approve  of  them  as  wise  or  not,  cannot  be  one 
of  active  opposition  or  defiance;  this,  as  a  general 
rule. 

In  the  historical  evolution  of  law,  as  in  the 
development  of  social  custom,  the  pace  is  by  no 
means  kept  equal  with  that  of  the  public  con- 
science. In  general,  it  lags  behind;  —  and  fortu- 
nately so,  because  the  laws,  like  the  prevalent 
customs,  do  well  to  act  on  the  whole  as  conserva- 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

live  forces.  But  sometimes,  a  minority  —  not 
always  of  the  wisest  and  best  —  by  clever  and 
unceasing  agitation  do  succeed  in  forcing  the  laws 
to  a  point  well  in  advance  of  where  they  can  be 
sustained  by  the  public  conscience.  Then,  too, 
the  essential  elements  of  morality,  which  lie  in 
personal  opinion,  personal  motives,  personal  char- 
acter, are  either  secretly  or  openly  at  variance 
with  the  law.  Such  a  case  presents  no  essentially 
different  problem  to  the  good  man,  whether  the 
laws  proceed  almost  or  quite  wholly  (as  in  Russia) 
from  an  autocratic  source,  or  proceed  (as  in  the 
United  States,  so  often)  from  a  sinister  but  mis- 
guided plutocracy,  or  from  an  impulsive  and 
fickle  democracy,  at  times  amounting  almost  to 
the  rule  of  the  mob. 

With  rare  exceptions  the  inner  law  for  the  good 
man  is  obedience  to  the  law  of  the  land,  even  if 
the  obedience  works  prejudice  to  his  rights  and 
interests  only,  without  involving  the  destruction 
of  his  moral  ideal.  In  general,  it  is  better,  morally, 
to  suffer  wrong  under  the  law  of  the  land  than  to 
do  wrong  by  breaking  the  law.  But  where  the 
laws  are  quite  plainly  oppressing  and  degrading 
the  great  body  of  the  people,  the  good  man  makes 
his  protest  in  ways  that  are  at  once,  so  far  as 
circumstances  make  possible,  courageous  and  wise ; 
and  he  may  in  extreme  cases  join  himself  with 
others,  in  the  name  of  a  cause  which  is  higher 
than  all  human  laws,  for  their  overthrow.  By 
common  consent,  however,  the  right  of  rebellion 

[227] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

is  justified  or  condemned,  not  solely  by  the 
motives  which  charity  may  assume  chiefly  influ- 
ence those  who  engage  in  it,  but  also  by  the  issue, 
in  fact,  which  must  be  held  to  have  a  bearing  on 
its  justness  and  its  wisdom.  Where  the  remedies 
for  bad  laws  are  in  the  long  run  held  in  the  hands 
of  the  citizens  themselves,  the  uprising  for  the 
overthrow  of  the  existing  legal  order  can  scarcely 
ever  be  justified  on  grounds  of  essential  morality. 
In  general,  "sabotage"  is  distinctly  immoral. 

On  the  other  hand,  however,  no  person  can 
reasonably  or  justly  commit  his  conduct  abso- 
lutely to  the  control  of  human  laws.  Morality 
must  be  self-controlled  in  obedience  to  the  ideal 
of  a  dutiful  and  virtuous  life.  Shall  I  make 
unquestioning  obedience  to  the  laws  the  goal  of 
my  righteous  endeavor,  the  ideal  of  my  moral 
personality?  Plainly,  one  cannot  be  a  good 
man,  in  any  form  of  human  society,  and  be  an 
avowed  opponent  and  habitual  breaker  of  the 
existing  laws.  But  to  make  those  laws  the 
unlimited  guardians  and  unrestricted  controllers 
of  one's  conduct  would  also  be  to  court  the  death 
of  righteous  personalities.  He  who  takes  active 
part  in  revolutionary  movements  can  only  pre- 
serve his  title  to  high  moral  character  by  first  of 
all  purging  himself  of  all  dross  of  selfish  greed 
and  ambition.  The  flaming  sword  must  be  of  the 
best  tempered  steel,  forged  for  cutting  down  the 
fields  of  stubble  in  the  heat  of  self-sacrificing 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  humanity,  but  also  well 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

shaped  and  skilfully  used  according  to  the  wisest 
craftsmanship,  the  cleverest  swordsmanship.  Only 
such  refusers  at  conformity  to  the  laws  of  the  land, 
or  soldiers  in  the  cause  of  revolt  against  these 
laws,  can  wear  the  crown  awarded  to  all  the 
martyrs  of  a  purely  moral  ideal. 

The  origin  of  a  universal  formula  for  the  regula- 
tion of  all  the  conduct  of  life,  and  to  be  called 
"The  Moral  Law"  (par  excellence,  as  it  were)  is 
chiefly  due  to  two  causes.  Of  these  the  first  is 
the  intellectual  desire  or  ambition  to  reduce  to 
unity  this  important  part  of  human  experience; 
and  the  second  is  the  mandatory  character  of 
those  judgments  which  are  enforced  by  the  feeling 
of  obligation,  —  or  by  the  essential  nature  of  the 
moral  judgment.  For  as  has  already  been  shown 
from  several  different  points  of  view,  moral 
judgments  are  not  simple  statements  of  fact,  of 
what  actually  is  or  of  what  will  probably  or  quite 
surely  be  if  something  else  is;  they  are  always 
statements  of  what  ought  to  be  in  satisfaction  of 
the  demands  of  moral  consciousness,  whether  as 
matter  of  fact  it  ever  has  been,  or  is  now,  or  is 
quite  likely  ever  to  be.  Formulas  of  conduct 
that  are  embodied  in  customs,  common  laws, 
statutes,  and  institutions,  do  really  and  inevitably 
bind  men  as  with  "iron  chains."  And  as  Lessing 
says  in  "Nathan  der  Weise"  (line  2755f.):  "The 
superstition  in  which  we  have  grown  up,  even 
when  we  come  to  recognize  it,  does  not  lose  its 
power  over  us  on  this  account.  They  are  not  all 

[229] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

free  who  scorn  their  chains."  But  it  is  only 
when  we  have  a  proposition  which  addresses 
itself  to  the  sense  of  obligation  as  a  rule  of  conduct 
to  which  the  person  ought  voluntarily  to  conform, 
that  we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  moral  law  in  the 
more  appropriate  sense  of  that  term. 

Codes  of  laws  that  have  set  themselves  up  to 
bind  the  will,  not  with  "iron  chains"  but  with 
voluntary  allegiance  in  the  name  of  conscience, 
are  numerous  and  varied  enough  in  all  the  ethical 
history  of  the  race.  They  have  existed  in  the 
form  of  tabu,  of  edicts  from  the  trusted  reposi- 
tories of  the  public  conscience,  from  the  great 
law-givers  like  Confucius,  Moses,  and  Moham- 
med; as  voices  from  the  gods  or  the  alone  God 
by  the  way  of  the  oracle  or  of  one  risen  from  the 
dead,  or  the  mouth  of  priest  or  prophet  or  reli- 
gious arbiter  and  judge  of  what  accords  with  the 
divine  will  in  righteousness.  But  none  of  these, 
whether  taken  in  isolation  or  in  company,  has 
ever  amounted  to  establishing  an  intelligible  and 
universally  applicable  formula  worthy  to  be 
called,  for  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances, 
The  Moral  Law. 

If  we  make  an  inductive  examination  of  all 
these  codes,  with  a  view  to  establish  one  law  on 
the  basis  of  the  results  of  such  an  examination, 
we  do  indeed  find  a  large  and  impressive  amount  of 
agreement  as  to  what  are  most  important  and 
fundamental  among  the  many  forms  of  good 
conduct,  —  the  qualities  of  a  genuine  moral  type 

[230] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

which  deserve  to  be  called  the  "cardinal  virtues." 
And  by  considering  the  "nature  of  the  thing,"  — 
of  the  varying  relations  of  society  and  of  the 
effects  of  conduct  under  those  relations,  —  we 
may  arrive  at  something  resembling  the  wisdom 
of  the  Stoic  Emperor,  Marcus  Aurelius.  We 
may  arrive,  that  is,  at  a  rather  unusual  ability 
to  decide,  with  him,  "What  virtue  I  have  need  of 
with  respect  to  it,  such  as  gentleness,  manliness, 
truth,  fidelity,  simplicity,  contentment  and  the 
rest."  But  this  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
discovering  by  induction  a  law  resembling  the 
law  of  gravity,  according  to  which  we  are  obliged 
to  shape  all  our  behavior,  which  acts  for  its  uni- 
versal range  and  absolute  sway  without  consulting 
human  wills,  and  whose  consequences  can  be 
predicted  for  the  remote  future  with  a  close 
approach  to  infallibility.  It  is  no  wonder,  then, 
that  the  one  and  all-inclusive  moral  law  has 
never  been  formulated  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
inquirers  on  the  basis  of  an  inductive  study  of 
human  history. 

"Say  ye  to  the  righteous,  It  shall  be  well  with 
him";  but  "Say  ye  to  the  wicked,  It  shall  be  ill 
with  him";  this  in  a  degree  summarizes  well 
man's  moral  experience.  But  the  repentance  of 
Nineveh  brought  to  nought  the  prophecies  of 
Jonah:  "The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly"; 
"The  power  in  history  that  works  for  righteous- 
ness" does  not  always  "pan  out"  its  expected 
quantity  of  gold  per  ton  of  mud;  and  the  promises 

[231] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

which  the  prophetic  vision  offers  to  the  eye  of 
faith  are  very  different  from  the  declarations  of 
a  universal  law.  Besides,  what  the  moral  law 
ought  to  do  is  not  simply  to  predict  in  a  vague 
general  way  the  consequences  of  right-doing  and 
wrong-doing,  but  to  give  us  a  formula  by  which 
we  may  infallibly  test  what  is  right-doing  and 
what  is  wrong-doing,  under  all  circumstances  and 
irrespective  of  time  (sub  specie  ceternitatis,  as 
Spinoza  would  say). 

The  attempt  to  establish  incontestably  the 
moral  law  has,  therefore,  more  than  once  been 
made  in  the  high-and-dry  a  priori  way,  as  an 
incontestable  deduction  from  the  very  nature  of 
moral  consciousness,  as  such.  That  there  is 
something  unchanging  about  the  underlying  prin- 
ciples of  morality  has  been  the  faith  of  all  the 
world's  greatest  and  most  beneficent  moral  philos- 
ophers. This,  too,  has  been  the  conviction  of 
the  greater  poets  and  dramatists.  Of  these 
principles  said  Sophocles  —  to  quote  him  once 
more  — 

"They  ne'er  shall  sink  to  slumber  in  oblivion; 
A  power  of  God  is  there,  untouched  by  Time." 

May  we  not,  then,  by  probing  this  consciousness 
very  deeply  discover  in  its  depths  the  universal 
formula  which  shall  satisfy  feeling  and  intellect 
alike?  No  wonder  that  the  heart  of  the  good 
man  leaps  up  with  glad  anticipations  at  the 
thought,  or  stands  in  reverential  awe  before  the 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

product  of  the  discovery  when  once  he  thinks  it 
has  been  made.  This  profound  stirring  of  the 
emotions  before  the  conception,  which  Kant 
called  "respect  for  the  Law,"  is  one  of  the  noblest 
and  most  moving  which  can  possess  the  breast  of 
a  moral  being. 

But  in  every  case  (and  from  the  very  nature  of 
the  case,  it  will  continue  to  be  so),  when  we  come 
closely  to  scrutinize  these  claims  to  have  dis- 
covered the  moral  law,  and  to  have  so  expressed 
it  as  to  make  of  it  a  universally  applicable  formula 
for  conduct,  we  find  that  this  law  is  neither  what 
it  claims  to  be,  nor  will  it  do  what  it  is  rightfully 
required  to  do. 

Of  all  the  attempts  at  formulating  "The  Moral 
Law"  that  of  Kant  is  in  modern  times  perhaps 
the  most  celebrated  and  the  most  influential, 
both  in  the  form  of  its  acceptance  and  of  its 
criticism  and  rejection.  Its  author  gives  it  the 
title  of  the  "Fundamental  Law  of  the  Pure 
Practical  Reason."  By  this  title  he  means  to 
claim  for  his  formula  exemption  from  dependence 
on  human  experience,  and  from  all  motive  for 
its  keeping  except  the  one  of  "respect  for  the 
law."  Indeed,  in  certain  passages  he  seems  to 
maintain  that  pleasure  in  doing  one's  duty  de- 
tracts from  the  merit,  if  it  does  not  wholly  destroy 
the  moral  character,  of  the  deed.  This  formula, 
as  stated  by  Kant  in  one  of  its  slightly  different 
forms,  reads  as  follows:  "Act  so  that  the  maxim 
of  thy  will  can  always  at  the  same  time  hold 

[233] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

good  as  a  principle  of  universal  legislation."  But 
even  a  school-boy,  if  he  will  really  think  for  a 
sufficient  time,  can  see  that  the  Kantian  formula 
is  a  complete  failure  as  an  answer  to  the  demand 
for  the  statement  of  the  one  and  only  and  all- 
inclusive  moral  law.  For  how  shall  one  know 
what  "can  always  be"  with  respect  to  the  appli- 
cation of  "the  maxim  of  my  will"  to  other  per- 
sons? And,  indeed,  even  the  maxim  of  my  will 
changes  and  has  to  be  determined  by  a  great 
variety  of  changing  conditions.  At  one  moment  it 
is  "Be  brave";  at  another  "Be  wise";  at  another, 
"Be  just";  at  still  another,  "Be  generous  and 
sympathetic  and  kind."  And  how  am  I,  without 
divine  omnipotence,  to  determine  the  fitness,  the 
power  to  "hold  good"  for  "universal  legislation" 
of  the  maxim  by  which  the  wisest  and  most  loyal 
of  human  individuals  deems  himself  obligated  in 
this  or  that  particular  case  to  govern  his  own 
conduct?  Nor  would  the  establishment  of  any 
system  of  maxims  in  the  form  of  a  universal 
legislation  secure  the  perfection  of  morality  in 
the  individual  or  in  society.  For  the  essential 
character  of  genuine  morality  cannot  properly 
be  conceived  of  as  the  reign  —  even  internally  — 
of  a  universal  law.  Genuine  morality  is  in  the 
individual  a  certain  type  of  personality.  It  is 
in  the  large  a  certain  type  of  society  composed 
of  individuals  loyal  to  this  type  of  personality. 
And  loyalty  to  the  type  does  not  consist  in  being 
precisely  like,  or  in  following  precisely  the  same 
[234  ] 


CUSTOM  AND  THE  MORAL  LAW 

maxims,  or  in  doing  on  like  occasions  precisely 
the  same  things,  as  others  are  and  think  and  plan 
and  do.  For  that  is  true  of  God  as  the  source  of 
all  righteousness,  which  the  BHAGAVAD  GITA 
says  of  the  object  of  varied  forms  of  religious 
devotion:  "However  men  approach  Me,  even  so 
do  I  accept  them;  for  the  path  men  take  from 
every  side  is  Mine." 

We  come  back  then  to  the  same  conclusion. 
A  certain  ideal  of  personal  life  sets  up  the  judg- 
ment-seat before  which  all  human  customs,  laws, 
and  institutions  —  and  even  all  codes  of  laws 
and  attempts  at  the  construction  of  a  so-called 
Moral  Law — must  appear  for  their  final  testing. 
And  the  one  thing  which  most  unifies  as  well  as 
energizes  the  life  of  the  incessant  inquirer,  What 
ought  I  to  do  ?  is  the  choice,  the  constant  uplift 
toward  purity  and  perfection,  and  the  courageous, 
constant,  and  unselfish  pursuit,  of  this  his  own 
personal  ideal. 


[235] 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF 
CONSCIENCE 


the  good  man,  the  doing  of  his  daily 
H  duties  is  for  the  most  part  wisely  com- 
Jl  mitted  to  the  working  of  habits  that  have 
been  formed  some  time  since,  and  that  act  ac- 
cording to  the  well-known  laws  of  this  great  force 
in  all  human  life.  The  individual  deeds  follow 
one  another  in  the  customary  order  with  little 
or  no  thought  of  their  moral  import,  however 
great  their  moral  importance  may  really  be. 
To  change  sightly  the  point  of  view:  The  virtues 
of  industry,  honesty,  fidelity,  patience,  truthful- 
ness, and  kindness  are  exercised  as  a  simple 
matter  of  course,  and  without  definite  attention 
to  the  inquiry  whether  one  is  acting  virtuously  in 
any  precise  meaning  of  the  word.  Indeed,  the 
pious  say  their  prayers  and  read  their  so-called 
"lessons"  from  the  Scriptures  in  much  the  same 
manner.  They  are  not  asking  themselves  whether 
they  ought  to  be  pious  and  piously  instructed  in 
the  ways  of  right  living.  Their  piety,  too,  per- 
forms its  acts  of  devotion,  and  of  seeking  for 
guidance  and  comfort  in  the  words  of  prophets, 
[236] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

psalmists,  and  apostles,  without  raising  the 
question  whether  such  things  are  ethically  justifi- 
able or  not.  This  smooth  running  of  the  moral 
life,  this  doing  of  duty  without  deliberation,  this 
freedom  from  the  bother  of  settling  questions  of 
conscience,  is  a  most  fortunate  state.  Happy 
on  the  whole  is  the  man  who  does  not  often  ask 
himself,  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  but  who  without 
raising  the  question  goes  ahead  (not  headlong) 
doing  what  he  ought,  until  he  finds  what  he  ought 
to  do  already  done. 

But  all  this  insouciance  or  unconsciousness  of 
moral  import  is  quite  as  prevalent  with  those 
whose  daily  doings  are  of  the  morally  doubtful 
or  the  distinctly  and  often  horribly  vicious  sort. 
Bad  deeds,  like  good  deeds,  are  customarily  done 
without  reflection  on  their  genuinely  moral  im- 
port, although  their  moral  importance  for  those 
who  do  them  and  for  the  whole  of  society  may 
be  very  great.  Bad  men,  too, — meaning  by  this 
not  those  who  have  said,  after  Satan,  "evil  be 
thou  my  good"  (if  indeed  any  such  there  be) 
but  those  who  are  neutral  or  indifferent  habitually 
to  moral  issues,  —  bad  men,  too,  although  they 
often  raise  the  question  whether  the  morally 
doubtful  or  morally  vicious  deed  will  be  profitable 
to  them,  or  not,  act  for  the  most  part  without 
raising  at  all  the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do  ? 
They  follow  along  in  the  courses  to  which  they 
have  become  committed  by  years  of  evil  habit. 
Indeed,  under  the  influence  of  habit,  one  may 

[237] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

become  largely  or  almost  completely  indifferent 
to  the  moral  question,  —  an  indifference  which 
may  perhaps  end  in  the  inability  to  raise  the 
question  at  all.  For,  in  general,  those  who  have 
the  most  trouble  over  the  settlement  of  questions 
of  conscience,  whether  as  respects  the  right  thing 
to  do  or  as  respects  the  right  of  things  already 
done,  are  those  who  are  most  loyal  to  the  moral 
ideal.  Such  trouble  afflicts  the  saints  much  more 
than  the  sinners,  —  if  we  may  for  the  moment 
adopt  this  favorite  ecclesiastical  way  of  dividing 
men  as  a  just  manner  of  distinguishing  those  who 
are  positively  loyal  to  the  moral  ideal  and  those 
who  are  not.  The  genuine  mourners  over  their 
own  wrong-doings,  the  times  they  have  missed 
and  not  hit  the  mark,  are  much  more  numerous  in 
the  prayer-closet  than  in  the  penitentiary.  It 
is  not  the  "cadets"  and  the  prostitutes  who  are 
as  a  class  most  sensitive  to  the  touch  of  impurity. 

But  for  all  persons  whose  moral  consciousness 
makes  any  fair  approaches  to  maturity  there 
come  times  when  the  conflict  of  duties  becomes 
acute;  when  the  moral  question  has  raised  itself 
"above  the  threshold"  so  that  it  cannot  be  put 
down  with  a  mere  withdrawal  of  eyes  and  ears; 
or  even  when  the  soul  must  fully  rouse  herself 
to  give  all  her  powers  to  know  what  the  right 
thing  is  and  whether  she  will  do  that  right  thing 
as  soon  as  it  becomes  known.  Such  a  mild  or 
more  severe  conflict,  or  such  a  real  crisis  in  the 
moral  life,  may  come  at  any  hour  through  the 

[238] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

springing-up  of  some  unexpected  occurrence,  or 
some  sudden  change  in  one's  environment  or 
opportunity,  or  some  moment's  call  to  do  an 
unaccustomed  thing.  More  perplexing,  however, 
are  those  questions  of  conscience  which  arise,  the 
rather,  from  internal  sources  and  which  have 
become  questions  burning  like  a  slow  fire  within 
the  bosom  for  months  and  even  years  of  time. 
And  all  the  while  in  our  most  highly  civilized 
communities,  through  increase  in  the  intricacy 
of  all  sort  of  human  relations,  through  the  multi- 
plication of  the  channels  of  influence  and  the 
widening  of  their  banks,  through  the  very  growth 
in  knowledge  of  natural  forces  and  laws  and  of 
the  psychology  of  human  motives  and  actions, 
"questions  of  conscience"  have  become  ever 
more  difficult  of  solution  by  the  application  of 
general  rules  or  would-be  universal  maxims. 

Casuistry  is  regarded  as  "the  science  or  doctrine 
of  cases  of  conscience."  Science  it  cannot  possibly 
be;  not  even  if  we  apply  this  term  to  the  field 
of  ethics  with  as  much  latitude  as  must  be  con- 
ceded to  it  when  we  talk  of  the  "science"  of 
meteorology  or  sociology.  And  yet  we  are  not  to 
deny  that  the  practice  of  casuistry  is  a  truly 
rational  and  commendable  sort  of  discipline. 
Excessive  punctiliousness  about  the  minutice  of 
behavior  certainly  does  not  prove  one  to  be 
exceedingly  conscientious.  Fussiness  in  finding 
and  doing  one's  duty  does  not  win  moral  respect. 
Before  the  greater  conflicts  of  conscience  a  feeling 

[239] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

of  the  awfulness  of  the  situation,  its  momentous 
consequences  for  the  moral  life  of  the  individual 
person,  if  not  also  for  others,  is  the  only  appro- 
priate feeling.  How  otherwise  than  with  a  sort 
of  awe  shall  we  fittingly  look  upon  Antigone  when 
she  risked  all  to  decide  between  the  duty  prompted 
by  affection  to  her  dead  brother  and  the  duty 
of  obedience  to  the  commands  of  the  king  and 
the  counsels  of  the  wise  old  men?  What  other 
feeling  than  that  of  moral  solemnity  would  have 
been  appropriate  if  we  could  have  looked  into  the 
soul  of  General  Noghi,  when  this  true  patriot  for 
a  moment  balanced  the  duty  of  living  for  his 
country  and  the  duty,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of 
joining  his  dead  Emperor  by  the  loyal  samurai's 
path  of  hara-kiri? 

It  has  all  the  while  been  made  increasingly 
clear  that  for  the  good  man  in  this  life  there  is  no 
escape  from  conflicts,  —  not  only  with  his  own 
evil  tendencies  and  the  moral  and  other  evils  of 
his  surroundings,  but  from  conflicts  of  duty  that 
may  keep  the  mind  long  brooding  over  them  or 
may  almost  rend  it  by  their  violence  at  particular 
crises  of  its  moral  history.  For  every  individual 
person  —  good  man  or  bad  man  —  such  conflicts 
must  in  the  last  issue  be  settled  by  himself. 
Counsel  he  may  take,  and  perhaps  ought  to  take; 
authority  in  various  forms  may  utter  its  quite 
legitimate  voice;  but  the  settlement  of  the  issue, 
that  must  be  the  individual's  own.  For  that 
very  reason,  however,  a  certain  training  in  casuis- 

[240] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

try,  or  the  methodical  settling  of  questions  of 
conscience,  is  no  mean  part  of  one's  moral  disci- 
pline; expertness  in  this  discipline  is  a  worthy 
part  of  one's  moral  education. 

The  grounds  of  moral  judgment,  the  values  of 
moral  feeling,  and  the  relations  of  duty  to  custom, 
law,  and  the  generalizations  of  moralists,  have 
already  been  discussed.  These  stand,  however, 
in  relation  to  the  practical  life  of  conduct  some- 
what as  do  the  allied  branches  of  science  to  a 
successful  art.  The  art  of  right  conduct,  es- 
pecially in  respect  to  the  practical  solution  of 
questions  of  conscience,  depends  upon  a  species 
of  Moral  Tact.  But  how  to  describe  moral  tact, 
like  the  attempt  to  describe  the  intuitions  and 
feelings  which  lead  the  artist  in  any  other  line  of 
art  to  hit  the  mark,  furnishes  a  difficult  or  im- 
possible sort  of  task.  And  indeed,  the  psychology 
of  tact  is  by  no  means  an  easy  subject  to  treat 
scientifically.  Let  any  one  stand  before  a  great 
portrait  painter  and  watch  him  as  he  deftly  and 
quickly  starts  and  carries  forward  his  work  of 
portraiture,  and  then  try  to  write  down  a  satis- 
factory account  of  what  in  the  artist's  mind 
guided  and  impelled  the  hand  to  its  successful 
result.  Or  let  any  one  attempt  the  same  task 
with  the  skilful  musician  when  he  is  improvising 
or  composing  in  his  own  familiar  art.  The  artists 
themselves  would  scarcely  venture  to  tell  just 
how  they  came  to  do  what  they  did  so  well.  We 
notice  the  rapidity  and  immediacy,  combined 

[241] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

with  a  certain  sureness  and  appropriateness  of 
the  effects,  and  we  speak  of  that  sort  of  "percep- 
tion," "intuition,"  "insight,"  as  a  wonderful 
"knack,"  or  "gift,"  or  "tact,"  no  matter  how 
much  painstaking  study  or  arduous  practice,  with 
its  acquirements  of  habit,  may  lie  back  of  it  all 
in  the  history  of  the  individual's  ambitions  for 
the  perfection  of  his  art.  Trained  intuition  may 
then  be  called  "Tact." 

In  cases  where  the  settling  of  questions  of 
conscience  seems  to  be  something  done  instan- 
taneously or,  as  the  phrase  is,  "on  the  spot," 
the  use  of  the  term  moral  tact  seems  scarcely 
at  all  inappropriate.  It  is  little  less  so  when  the 
settlement  comes  as  the  result  of  long  and  painful 
deliberation  over  the  question  of  duty.  In  fact, 
in  such  cases  also,  the  truth  comes  at  last  by  a 
sort  of  leap  out  of  the  darker  recesses  of  the  soul, 
of  the  intuition  of  what  is  right,  of  the  conviction 
as  to  where  the  duty  lies,  of  the  vision  which  is 
most  apt  to  prove  itself  at  some  future  time  a 
truly  prophetic  affair,  a  genuine  "  thus-saith-the- 
Lord." 

It  will  be  seen,  then,  that  the  theologian,  the 
priest,  the  moralist,  or  the  man  of  experience  in 
human  affairs,  who  is  not  himself  a  person  of 
genuine  moral  tact,  —  that  is,  a  person  with  a 
trained  and  refined  moral  consciousness,  —  can 
scarcely  become  a  trustworthy  casuist.  But 
good  men  and  women  differ  more  in  respect  of 
the  qualities  necessary  for  a  high  degree  of  moral 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

tact  than  in  the  sincerity  and  depth  of  their  moral 
purposes.  This  makes  the  qualifications  for  set- 
tling questions  of  conscience  successfully  more 
distinctly  a  matter  of  education.  For  moral  tact, 
like  the  ability  to  form  with  unusual  rapidity, 
immediacy,  and  yet  sureness  and  fineness,  other 
kinds  of  judgment,  is  susceptible  of  cultivation; 
within  certain  limits  it  can  be  both  learned  and 
taught  by  example  and  by  practice,  in  the  narrower 
meaning  of  the  latter  word. 

In  the  cultivation  of  moral  tact  four  things 
are  chiefly  necessary.  These  are  (1)  sensitiveness 
of  moral  feeling;  (2)  insight  into  the  motives  of 
men  in  general  and  especially  into  the  motives 
of  those  composing  one's  social  environment; 
(3)  experience  as  to  the  consequences  of  different 
kinds  of  conduct;  and  (4)  subtlety  of  reasoning, 
or  skill  in  the  drawing  of  detailed  inferences. 

Disregard  of  the  feelings  of  others  and  the 
consequent  failure  to  interpret  their  actions 
correctly  and  thus  to  recognize  and  sympathize 
with  what  is  good  in  them,  and  to  help  in  correct- 
ing what  is  bad,  is  a  fruitful  source  of  much  of 
the  immorality  of  discourtesy.  This  form  of 
disloyalty  to  the  ideal  of  personality  is  peculiarly 
frequent  and  especially  mischievous  in  the  inter- 
course of  the  men  of  the  Occident  with  the  Orient, 
—  diplomats,  travellers,  and  even  missionaries. 
With  the  average  man,  the  foreigner  lives  just 
over  the  nearest  mountain  range,  or  across  the 
next  river;  or  at  the  farthest,  just  over  seas. 

[243] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

With  the  good  man  of  insight  and  experience, 
there  is  no  human  being  who  is  altogether  foreign. 
And  in  general,  to  know  how  the  other  "fellow" 
(expressive  word!)  feels  is  a  most  important 
element  in  determining  the  morality  of  all  our 
dealings  with  him.  For  carelessness  and  vul- 
garity in  our  intercourse  with  others  are  perilously 
near  the  border  land  of  vice,  even  if  they  do  not 
lead  one  quite  over  the  line  into  its  forbidden 
country.  Wisdom  and  Sympathy  are  the  cardinal 
virtues  in  which  the  maxims  of  casuistry  in  such 
matters  have  their  roots. 

When  one  has  to  find  one's  path  through  a 
battle  royal  between  conflicting  calls  to  duty,  the 
trial  is  often  difficult  indeed.  We  know  so  little 
as  to  the  manifold  conditions  which  involve  the 
interests  of  others,  and  even  less  as  to  what  the 
consequences  of  our  action  in  either  of  the  direc- 
tions indicated  by  conscience  may  turn  out  to  be. 
For  to  maintain  with  Professor  Green  and  others 
that  there  can  be  no  such  experience  as  a  real 
conflict  of  duties  seems  almost  cruelly  to  mock 
with  unmeaning  abstractions  some  of  the  most 
serious  and,  indeed,  most  awful  of  the  experiences 
of  our  actual  human  life.  There  is  one  con- 
sideration, however,  which  stands  at  the  threshold 
of  many  of  such  conflicts  and  which  may  take 
the  form  of  an  important  preliminary  question 
of  conscience.  Our  action  has  reference  to  others 
who  must  be  the  favored  recipients  or  the  unfor- 
tunate victims  of  what  we  decide  it  is  right  for 
[244] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

us  to  do.  But  this  is  the  important  preliminary 
question:  Shall  we  do  anything  at  all?  Is  it 
best  that  somebody  should  act,  or  that  every- 
body should  wait  yet  a  while  longer?  Is  long- 
suffering  to  be  in  justice  no  longer  the  course  of 
duty;  or  is  it  duty  to  suffer  in  patience  and 
leniency  up  to  a  yet  somewhat  distant  limit? 
But  if  some  one  must  act  and  act  now;  Am  I  the 
one  —  alone  or  in  association  with  others  — 
whom  duty  calls? 

No  moral  law  or  code  of  righteous  maxims  can 
always  settle  this  grave  preliminary  question. 
The  question  itself  is  a  most  frequent  and  subtle 
temptation  to  cowardice;  it  is,  perhaps  not 
much  less  frequently,  an  excuse  for  lack  of  wis- 
dom. But  there  is  one  consideration  which 
must  always  be  borne  in  mind;  and  this  has  to 
do  with  the  essential  nature  and  the  inviolable 
rights  of  personal  life.  There  is  a  sort  of  sanctity 
belonging  'inalienably  to  the  most  degraded, 
vicious,  and  seemingly  hopeless  examples  of  the 
personal  type.  Its  possibilities  are  not  easy  to 
limit;  its  resources  of  recovery  are  not  always 
exhausted  when  they  appear  most  clearly  so  to 
be;  its  rights  are  never  to  be  in  human  hands 
regarded  as  in  all  respects  and  forever  forfeited. 
Even  as  to  the  approaches  of  others  with  the 
best  of  intentions  certain  of  these  rights  remain 
inviolable.  It  is  only  when  this  preliminary 
question  of  duty  has  been  settled,  whether  by 
reference  to  domestic,  business,  official,  or  more 

[245] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

purely  social  relations,  or  by  the  impulses  of 
human  brotherly  feeling  and  insight  into  oppor- 
tunity, that  moral  tact,  in  the  selection  of  the 
particular  duty  and  in  the  manner  of  its  per- 
formance, comes  prominently  into  play.  We 
have  the  right  spirit,  we  know  the  duty  to  be 
done;  and  now  we  feel  the  way  to  do  it  most 
sympathetically  and  yet  effectively.  Ought  I  to 
do  anything?  Is  it  a  matter  in  which  duty  calls 
me  to  take  part?  If  Yes;  then  tact  enables  me 
to  choose  that  part  and  to  discharge  my  duty 
in  it,  in  the  best  way. 

In  considering  the  sphere  in  which  casuistry 
takes  a  most  conspicuous  part,  we  return  again 
to  a  brief  reference  to  the  relation  in  which  moral- 
ity stands  to  custom.  Here  is  the  sphere,  too, 
in  which  we  may  oftenest  save  our  conscientious 
scruples  by  keeping  aloof  from  all  occasion  for  a 
conflict  of  duties.  The  servant  of  the  Syrian 
king  who  believed  in  the  foreign  god,  Yahveh, 
might  be  pardoned  for  making  it  matter  of  con- 
science when  he  begged  Elisha:  "In  this  thing 
the  Lord  pardon  thy  servant,  that  when  my 
master  goeth  into  the  house  of  Rimmon  to  worship 
there,  and  he  leaneth  on  my  hand,  and  I  bow 
myself  in  the  house  of  Rimmon,  when  I  bow 
myself  in  the  house  of  Rimmon,  the  Lord  pardon 
thy  servant  in  this  thing."  But  an  American 
citizen  of  stiff  Protestant  persuasion,  or  of  no 
religious  persuasion  whatever,  if  he  has  conscien- 
tious objections  to  kissing  the  hand  of  the  pope, 

[246] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

or  to  kneeling  in  his  presence,  or  to  receiving  his 
blessing,  need  not  seek  invitations  to  the  pope's 
receptions.  And,  indeed,  we  can  avoid  a  large 
part  of  the  difficulty  of  settling  such  cases  of 
conscience  by  keeping  out  of  the  society  which 
presses  them  upon  us.  To  attend  banquets 
where  wine  is  sure  to  be  served  may  be  at  times 
a  function  which  duty  imposes  on  the  total 
abstainer:  if  so,  it  is  rarely  his  duty  to  take 
pains  to  make  conspicuous  his  practice  of  total 
abstinence. 

Among  the  more  important  and  often  painful 
cases  of  conscience  are  those  when  it  is  put  upon 
us  which  of  two  persons,  or  groups  of  persons, 
shall  have  their  seemingly  conflicting  interests 
regarded.  In  American  slavery  "days  before 
the  war,"  the  law  required  that  the  citizen  even 
of  a  free  State  should  chiefly  regard  the  property 
rights  of  the  slave-owner;  the  dictates  of  humanity 
convinced  the  Free  Soiler  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
assist  the  escape  of  the  fugitive  slave.  In  the 
war  that  followed,  men's  hearts  were  torn  by  the 
strife  between  loyalty  to  the  country  and  loyalty 
to  the  state.  The  moralists  have  not  to  this  day 
agreed  as  to  which  of  the  two  were  plainly  in  the 
right.  But  this  was  a  question  which  each  moral 
person  had  to  settle  for  himself  in  his  own  right, 
—  only,  however,  that  it  might  be  settled  morally 
right,  remembering  that  it  must  be  considered 
and  settled  on  moral  grounds.  Similar  conflicts 
are  constantly  arising  in  the  life  of  the  family, 

[247] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

where  so  often  the  things  due  the  wife  seem  to 
conflict  with  duties  to  the  children;  or  what 
seems  duty  toward  one  child  is  incompatible  with 
what,  with  equal  clearness,  seems  duty  to  another 
child.  In  such  cases  the  pious  man  takes  counsel 
of  God  and  of  his  own  good  sense,  and  runs  the 
risks  we  all  must  run  in  a  world  where  obligations 
are  inevitably  so  conflicting,  and  where  duty  is  so 
often  not  at  all  plain. 

There  is  another  sort  of  conflict  in  which  the 
attempt  to  follow  the  moral  ideal  involves  us; 
but  which  growth  in  the  practice  and  cultivation 
of  moral  tact  may  make  a  vanishing  quantity. 
It  has  already  been  considered  as  the  inescapable 
result  of  the  passage  from  that  stage  of  moral 
development  when  the  social  surroundings  impress 
upon  the  feelings  the  obligation  to  an  unthinking 
conformity  with  their  judgments  as  to  the  right 
and  wrong  of  conduct,  over  to  the  advanced 
stage  when  the  individual  Self  has  come  to  form 
its  own  moral  judgments  with  the  freedom  of  an 
enlightened  intelligence,  inspired  by  more  exalted 
emotions,  and  with  a  greatly  expanded  experience 
as  to  the  values  and  the  consequences  of  different 
courses  of  conduct.  This  is  the  conflict  between 
the  earlier  but  now  obsolescent  feeling  of  what 
it  is  right  to  do  and  the  maturer  decision  of  what 
is  right  on  grounds  of  established  moral  principles. 
As  has  already  been  pointed  out,  the  process  of 
settling  such  questions  is  delicate  and  dangerous 
to  the  integrity  of  one's  moral  welfare.  But  it  is 

[248] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

valuable  discipline;  and  it  is  inevitable.  The 
feeling  of  "the  ought"  (or  of  its  opposite,  "the 
ought  not")  must  always  be  treated  with  great 
tenderness;  but  betimes  it  must  be  tenderly  set 
on  one  side  as  a  relic  of  the  childhood  of  morality; 
and  it  must  be  continually  trained  into  a  rational 
and  courageous  loyalty  to  an  ever-rising  and  ever- 
enlarging  moral  ideal. 

Of  all  the  questions  of  conscience  which  have 
occasioned  most  perplexity  and  have  most  dis- 
tracted the  moral  consciousness  of  the  individual 
good  man,  which  have  divided  the  schools  of  the 
moralists,  and  which  have  set  quarrelling  the 
opinions  of  the  social  environment,  those  con- 
cerned with  the  cardinal  virtue  of  truthfulness 
probably  stand  in  the  front  rank.  Are  lies  ever 
morally  justifiable?  What  are  the  correct  sub- 
stitutes for  out-and-out  lying  by  way  of  deceits, 
tricks  of  word  or  gesture,  pleas  that  the  end 
justifies  the  means,  etc.,  etc.;  —  such  are  the 
topics  that  constitute  no  inconsiderable  part  of 
the  treatises  on  casuistry.  What  ought  I  to  do?  — 
lie  and  cover  up  much  suffering  and  even  wrong- 
doing that  the  truth  would  surely  produce;  or 
tell  "the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth,"  as  runs  the  oath  so  frequently  de- 
liberately violated,  and  never  in  strictness  made 
the  measure  of  any  witness'  testimony  in  a  modern 
court  of  justice.  In  a  large  number,  perhaps  in 
the  majority,  of  the  most  painful  conflicts  of 
duty,  the  decision  is  made  the  more  perplexing 

[249] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

because  of  the  very  nature  of  this  virtue.  In 
the  system  of  virtues,  so  to  say,  the  virtue  of 
truthfulness  occupies  in  important  respects  a 
quite  unique  position.  It  consitutes  the  very 
core  of  all  moral  manhood.  It  is  the  one  last 
stronghold  of  the  economic  and  social  welfare  of 
the  multitude.  It  is  the  distinguishing  trait  of 
the  honorable  Christian  gentleman,  quite  irrespec- 
tive of  rank,  breeding  to  etiquette,  wealth,  or 
social  position.  It  is  the  strongest  bond  of  peace 
between  nations  as  well  as  between  individuals. 
"You  have  lied  to  me,"  too  often  means  farewell 
to  friendship  between  friends  and  between  hitherto 
friendly  nations,  whose  diplomats,  commercial 
travellers,  and  historians  can  make  that  charge 
against  each  other.  Moreover,  the  cardinal  vir- 
tues of  courage  and  loyalty  stand  on  either  side 
of  truth  holding  up  her  hands,  and  bidding  in  her 
ear  not  to  desert  their  side  in  the  time  of  trial. 
But  over  against  truthfulness  as  rival  and  incon- 
sistent virtues  so  often  stand  the  virtues  of  pity, 
sympathy,  kindness,  sincere  regard  for  the  in- 
terests of  the  innocent,  benevolence,  and  even  a 
sort  of  "general  justice."  Essential  Trueness, 
however,  is  not  simply  speaking  truth;  it  may 
often,  the  rather,  demand  silence,  or  the  utter- 
ance which  is  almost  sure  to  be  misunder- 
stood. 

On  the  settlement  of  questions  of  conscience 
which  involve  a  seeming  conflict  between  truth- 
fulness and  certain  other  of  the  more  important 

[250] 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

virtues,  we  cannot  do  better  than  to  quote  at 
some  length  what  has  been  elsewhere  said  on  the 
same  subject  ("Philosophy  of  Conduct,"  p.  433ff.) : 
"This  brief  casuistical  discussion  may  fitly  be 
brought  to  a  close  by  a  few  words  regarding  one 
class  of  cases  of  conscience  which  has  given  the 
casuists  of  all  times  no  small  amount  of  trouble. 
These  cases  are  those  in  which  the  duty  of  truth- 
telling  comes  into  conflict  with  some  other  form 
of  duty  that  claims  to  be  equally  cardinal,  or  even 
more  fundamental.  Here  our  view  of  the  nature 
of  morality  does  not  permit  us  either  to  say  with 
Kant  that  untruthfulness  is  always  by  its  mere 
form,  a  crime  of  man  against  his  own  person, 
and  a  baseness  which  must  make  a  man  despicable 
in  his  own  eyes;  or  with  Fichte:  "I  would  not 
break  my  word  even  to  save  humanity  " ;  but  even 
less  to  hold  with  Paulsen  that  veracity  may  be 
regarded  as  a  form  of  benevolence  and  that  lies 
may  be  told  with  good  conscience  if  they  seem 
likely,  in  particular  cases,  to  benefit  others.  It 
would  scarcely  seem  necessary  to  controvert  the 
extreme  views  of  Kant  and  Fichte,  in  these  days 
when  the  utility  of  truthfulness  is  so  emphasized 
by  most  writers  when  commending  it  as  a  virtue. 
Moreover,  I  have  already  indicated  in  what 
sense  Trueness  is  a  cardinal,  an  absolute  virtue 
-not  as  the  mere  keeping  of  a  law,  but  as  an 
act  of  fidelity  to  the  nature  of  moral  and  rational 
selfhood.  Nor  need  we  dwell  long  upon  the 
necessity  under  which  Paulsen  (with  every  other 

[251] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

student  of  ethics  who  does  not  place  this  virtue 
upon  its  own  secure  foundations)  finds  himself 
covertly  reintroducing  considerations  which  his 
very  conception  of  the  virtue  has  appeared  openly 
to  exclude.  For  if  the  sole  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, Why  is  lying  wrong?  is  this:  Because  it 
destroys  faith  and  confidence  among  men,  and 
consequently  undermines  human  social  life,  the 
other  question  soon  returns:  What  about  human 
social  life  is  it  that  lying  undermines  which  has 
the  worth  to  make  the  happiness  given  by,  and 
derived  from,  much  lying,  disapproved  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  ideal  of  personal  morality?  In 
trying  to  answer  this  question  we  actually  find 
Paulsen  disapproving,  on  the  one  hand,  of  the 
theologians  who  deceive  men  in  the  supposed 
interest  of  the  salvation  of  their  souls,  and  com- 
mending physicians  who  deceive  them  in  the 
interest  of  their  bodily  health  or  of  recovery  from 
disease!" 

"When  the  conflict  is  on  between  the  duty  of 
truth-telling  and  the  duty  to  exercise  some  con- 
trary and  opposed  form  of  virtue,  only  the  indi- 
vidual whose  conflict  it  is  can  decide  which  of  the 
two  shall  control  his  action.  But  the  conflict 
must  be  fought  out  on  grounds  of  duty,  and  the 
eye  must  be  kept  steadily  fixed  on  the  moral  ideal. 
Otherwise,  whichever  way  this  particular  problem 
of  conduct  is  practically  settled,  duty  is  not  really 
done,  and  the  moral  ideal  has  been  violated.  In 
most  cases  it  will  be  found,  I  think,  that  the 


SETTLING  QUESTIONS  OF  CONSCIENCE 

conflict  is  not  between  duties  at  all.  For  ex- 
ample, if  the  question  seem  to  be,  Shall  I  tell  the 
truth  and  be  unkind,  or  speak  falsely  in  a  benevo- 
lent way?  there  are  several  questions  that  deserve 
an  answer  which  lie  still  back  of  this  one.  Must 
I  speak  at  all?  Will  the  truth  be  really  unkind? 
Will  the  falsehood  or  deceit  be  really  kind:  and 
if  a  kindness  to  this  one  person,  will  it  be  a  kind- 
ness to  society?  And,  indeed,  am  I  bound  to  be 
kind  in  this  case?" 

"He  who  values  Trueness  at  its  own  intrinsic 
worth,  as  belonging  to  the  most  essential  qualities 
of  rational  and  moral  personality,  and  as  situate 
at  the  very  foundation  of  all  social  intercourse 
of  the  moral  sort  between  selves,  but  who  has 
come  to  the  pass  that  he  must  either  deliberately 
surrender  this  precious  thing  for  only  one  mo- 
ment, or  else  do  a  great  wrong  by  way  of  injustice, 
unkindness,  or  other  harmful  conduct  to  his 
fellow  men,  is  in  a  hard  case  indeed.  He  is  in 
one  of  those  tragic  situations  for  the  relief  from 
which  no  system  of  casuistical  rules,  and  no  code 
of  moral  principles,  can  amply  provide.  He 
must  settle  his  own  case  of  conscience  as  best  he 
can.  But  he  must  settle  it  as  a  moral  problem 
—  keeping  himself  free  from  cowardice,  injustice, 
enmity,  and  hypocrisy  or  self-deceit.  If  he  thus 
settle  it,  good  men  will  commend  his  devotion  to 
his  own  ideal  of  duty,  and  pardon  and  pity  him 
if  he  seems  to  them  not  to  have  settled  it  aright. 
And  what  the  Judge  who  knows  the  whole  truth 

[253] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

will  cause  to  eventuate  from  this  human  decision 
is  in  this  Judge's  hands." 

"The  struggle  itself  has  its  own  value,  although 
its  place  in  the  realization  of  the  Moral  Ideal 
may  be  a  mystery  hidden  from  man." 

Counsel  and  a  certain  kind  of  authority  have 
their  important  place  in  all  the  decisions  between 
conflicting  duties  which  confront  the  immature 
and  finite  personality  in  its  attempt  at  self- 
realization  under  the  intricate  system  of  social 
duties  and  social  virtues  which  are  inseparable 
from  the  moral  discipline  of  humanity.  Counsel 
and  authority  are  inseparable  from  the  discipline 
which  results  in  the  acquirement  of  moral  tact. 
But  the  spontaneity  of  a  trained  and  disciplined 
moral  conscience  becomes  the  best  of  counsellors; 
and  it  is  the  final  arbiter:  but  only  when,  and  as 
long  as  it  is  kept  open  to  that  Spirit  of  all  right- 
eousness and  love  that  is  pledged  to  the  moral 
redemption  of  humanity,  and  that  perpetually 
summons  all  its  spiritual  sons  to  aid  in  its  good 
work  with  the  courage  and  constancy  resembling 
its  own  indomitable  Good  Will. 


[254] 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

HITS  far  all  our  thoughts,  from  whatever 
point  of  view  we  have  essayed  to  ap- 
proach the  main  problem  involved  in 
the  practical  question  What  ought  I  to  do?  seem 
to  have  revolved  around  two  profound,  but  com- 
plex and  not  wholly  clear  conceptions,  in  the 
understanding  of  which  the  final  issues  of  morality 
are  to  be  found,  if  they  are  to  be  found  at  all. 
These  conceptions  are  embodied  and  in  a  measure 
consecrated  by  the  words  Personality  and  Evolu- 
tion or  Development.  The  former  defines  the 
sources,  the  meaning  and  the  subjective  influences, 
but  above  all  the  end,  of  the  moral  life.  In  the 
latter  we  should  hope  to  discover,  besides  its 
actual  external  conditions  and  their  laws,  the 
material  for  writing  a  sort  of  descriptive  history 
of  this  life.  We  might  possibly  gain,  even  for 
mankind  at  large,  some  pertinent  hints  as  to  its 
future.  In  a  word:  If  we  may  know  the  nature, 
the  values,  and  the  goal  of  personal  life,  and  also 
the  ways  in  which  this  life  is  compelled  to  unfold 
itself,  we  have  both  the  controlling  ideas  of  a 
true  ethical  system,  and  the  clews  to  a  successful 

[255] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

method  of  conducting  ourselves  from  the  moral 
point  of  view.  Thus  all  the  problems  of  duty 
and  destiny  have  their  issues  involved  in  the 
mystery  of  personal  development.  And  this  is 
true  both  for  the  individual  and  for  the 
race. 

When  we  attempt  to  speak  of  the  "final  issue" 
of  any  problem,  as  it  is  proposed  for  theoretical 
solution  and  for  the  control  of  practice,  we  do 
not  use  the  words  as  though  we  were  seated  in 
the  throne  of  Divine  wisdom  and  foreknowledge. 
In  some  sort,  no  human  thought  or  human  en- 
deavor can  reach  that  which  is  entitled  to  be 
called  "final,"  if  by  this  we  mean  what  admits  of 
no  further  expansion  or  improvement.  Science 
has  not  attained,  has  not  even  very  closely  ap- 
proached, any  determination  of  the  physical, 
much  less  of  the  political  and  social  conditions, 
upon  which  the  moral  life  of  the  individual  or  of 
society  is  in  an  absolute  way  dependent.  Ethics, 
as  hitherto  understood  and  treated  by  its  most 
gifted  and  profound  writers,  has  not  yet  been 
able  to  describe  the  for-all-time  and  under-all- 
conceivable-circumstances  perfect  type  of  the 
moral  person.  Even  less  has  it  been  able  to 
depict  the  details  of  a  constitution,  and  the 
practical  working  of  a  society,  which  should  be 
wholly  composed  of  such  individual  persons. 
Nor  has  psychology  attained  distinction  in  the 
results  of  a  definite  aim  to  explore  to  their  depths 
the  resources,  the  right  or  wrong  development  of 

[256] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

which  inevitably  and  finally  fixes  the  issues  of 
success  or  failure  for  the  moral  life  as  such.  Least 
of  all  does  the  average  man  have  any  finished 
and  absolutely  true  conception  either  of  what 
he  now  is  as  being  a  person,  or  of  what  he  may 
become  in  either  direction  by  the  acceptance  or 
the  rejection  of  his  own  best  ideal  of  the  moral 
life. 

We  may,  however,  correctly  speak  of  the  "final 
issue"  to  the  attempt  at  answering,  as  best  one 
may,  all  the  subordinate  inquiries  under  the 
leading  question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  in  terms  of 
these  two  conceptions,  Personality  and  Evolu- 
tion. We  summarize  thus:  "  The  Moral  Self  in  a 
process  of  Development  toward  the  Social  Ideal,  — 
this  complex  of  conceptions  contains  the  whole 
domain  of  investigation  for  the  student  of  ethics. 
What  is  the  essential  nature  of  the  subject  of 
conduct,  the  ethical  being  of  man?  It  is  moral 
selfhood;  it  has  already  been  described.  But 
for  every  individual  man,  and  for  the  whole  race 
of  men,  conduct  is  some  sort  of  a  career;  it  is 
subject  to  the  principle  of  continuity;  it  is  a 
matter  of  history,  and  of  the  growth  from  be- 
ginnings toward  ends,  in  the  on-going  of  time; 
it  is  something  which  can  neither  be  described 
nor  even  conceived  of,  except  as  the  individual 
is  regarded  in  his  physical,  and  especially  in  his 
social  environment.  The  principle  of  Evolution 
applies  then  in  ethics;  but  in  no  superficial 
or  merely  external  way.  The  Moral  Self  is  a 

[257] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

life-growth,  and  so  subject  —  although  on  its 
own  special  terms,  as  it  were — to  a  continuous 
development." 

When,  then,  we  speak  of  the  final  issue  to  all 
questions  concerning  the  right  and  wrong  of 
conduct  in  this  comprehensive  way,  we  mean 
that  the  sources,  the  values,  the  significance  and 
the  end  of  the  life  of  duty  and  of  virtue  —  in  a 
word,  all  of  moral  import  —  are  to  be  found,  and 
to  be  found  only,  in  a  just  and  adequate  concep- 
tion of  the  nature  and  unfolding  of  Personal  Life. 
Do  we  wish  a  sound  understanding  of  ethical 
problems?  We  must  understand  what  it  is  to  be 
a  person,  and  to  be  one  of  many  persons  bound 
together  in  personal  relations.  Do  we  wish  in 
any  particular  case  to  do  our  duty,  or  to  discover 
what  particular  virtue  is  appropriate  to  be  em- 
phasized on  any  particular  occasion?  We  must 
know  what  is  becoming  under  just  such  circum- 
stances for  one  entrusted  with  the  capacities  and 
responsibilities  of  a  person.  If  we  wish  to  be  in 
the  highest  degree  good  men  and  true,  our  ideal 
must  be  that  of  moral  goodness;  —  adapted,  how- 
ever, to  the  individuality  which  characterizes  our 
personal  development. 

Still  further:  If  we  inquire,  whether  from  the 
theoretical  or  the  .more  practical  points  of  view, 
as  to  the  sources,  the  sanctions,  the  values,  or 
the  issues,  of  the  moral  life,  we  find  our  satis- 
factory answers,  so  far  as  we  find  them  at  all,  and 
our  suggestions  looking  toward  the  possibility  of 

[258], 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

yet  more  satisfactory  answers,  in  an  ever  growing 
knowledge  of  that  type  of  Being  which  we  are 
prone  to  conceive  of  as  the  Perfect  Person.  All 
moral  questions,  if  we  pursue  them  far  enough, 
issue  in  this  inquiry,  What  is  that  type?  And 
this  issue  is  final;  for  there  is  no  more  beyond, 
or  back,  or  outside,  of  it.  When  we  have  come 
to  the  limits  of  our  intellect  and  imagination  in 
pursuing  this  inquiry,  there  is  nothing  more  to 
be  done;  no  further  work  for  either  intellect  or 
imagination  to  undertake.  There  are  no  sources 
deeper,  no  sanctions  more  obligatory,  no  values 
higher,  no  issues  more  important,  than  are  those 
provided  for  by  the  conception  of  Personal  Life 
in  a  process  of  Development  toward  the  Social 
Ideal. 

The  ultimate  Sources  of  moral  life  are  in  the 
person.  To  become  a  person  at  all,  the  agreeable 
feeling  of  the  child,  at  being  commended  and 
rewarded  for  compliance  with  the  conventional 
conduct  of  its  social  environment,  or  its  obscure 
uneasiness  at  experiencing  in  some  form  a  show 
of  social  disapproval  and  resentment,  must  de- 
velop the  solemn  judgment  of  obligation.  This 
is  necessary  in  order  that  the  personal  life  may 
begin;  and  with  it  begins  also  one  of  the  most 
important  features  of  the  moral  life.  With  the 
feeling  of  obligation,  and  as  an  imperative  condi- 
tion of  the  development  of  the  truly  moral  judg- 
ment, intellect  and  imagination  must  grow  to 
the  achievement  of  certain  conceptions  and 

[259] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

mental  pictures  which  are  quite  beyond  the 
possibilities  of  any  lower  form  of  life  than  that  of 
the  personal  type.  The  strictly  personal  concep- 
tions of  a  Self  that  is  my  Self  and  of  a  Self  that 
is  some  other  than  mine,  but  with  whom  I  must 
enter  into  personal  relations;  the  conception  of 
Time  and  a  certain  mysterious  continuity  of  the 
Self  in  time,  which  has  in  my  conscience  and  in 
the  consciences  of  others  and  in  the  customs  and 
laws  of  society,  the  strange  effect  of  prolonging 
indefinitely  the  feeling  of  obligation  as  attaching 
to  the  individual  person;  a  sort  of  doctrine  of 
Karma  or  retribution,  which  is  something  quite 
different  from  an  animal  anticipation  of  the 
immediate  consequences  of  action,  and  something 
quite  other  than  an  instance  under  the  mechanical 
working  of  the  so-called  law  of  cause  and  effect; 
—  all  these,  and  other  similar  godlike  achieve- 
ments of  an  intellect  and  an  imagination  which 
break  through  and  rise  above  the  limits  of  the 
life  of  sensation  and  animal  emotion,  have  their 
sources  in  the  depths  of  personal  life.  They  are 
the  essentials  of  the  development  of  moral  life; 
but  they  are  nowhere  to  be  realized  outside  of 
a  developing  personal  life.  Only  a  person  can 
know  his  Self  as  enduring  in  Time,  and  bound  to 
bear  the  Consequences  of  his  conduct  throughout 
time. 

More  important  and  more  mysterious  still  is  that 
capacity  for  self-direction  and  self-development 
which  begins  as  an  obscure  feeling,  "I  can," 

[260] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

but  which  matures  in  the  ability  to  make  choices 
that,  in  not  infrequent  cases,  affect  all  the  issues 
of  the  moral  life.  On  the  one  hand,  we  cannot 
overlook  or  minimize,  whether  in  our  theory  of 
morality  or  in  our  practice,  the  influence  of  the 
conditions  that  are  fixed  from  the  outside,  in  the 
shape  of  inheritance  and  physical  and  social  envi- 
ronment, over  the  unfolding  of  the  individual's 
moral  life.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  exaggerate 
this  influence  as  we  may,  we  cannot  justly  claim 
that  it  is  everything  which  determines  the  nature 
and  evolution  of  each  truly  personal  life.  A 
person  is  not  a  mere  psycho-physical  mechanism; 
such  a  mechanism  would  be  absolutely  incapable 
of  originating  and  determining  the  issues  of 
morality.  Either  the  mechanical  theory  of  per- 
sonal development  is  false,  or  there  is  no  reality 
to  moral  character.  Confessedly  mysterious  as  is 
the  fact,  unaccountable  as  the  view  may  seem  to 
make  the  doings  of  the  Self  (though,  as  we  hold, 
not  at  all  more  ultimately  mysterious  and  unac- 
countable than  all  ultimate  facts  are  sure  to  be), 
the  deeper  sources  of  the  determination  of  the 
development  of  morality  involve  the  gift  of  the 
freedom  of  a  person.  Were  this  not  so,  did  not 
the  process  of  becoming  a  person  involve  the 
element  of  freedom  in  a  manner  and  to  an  ex- 
tent beyond  the  realm  of  the  impersonal  and  the 
mechanical,  then  no  such  thing  as  an  unfolding 
moral  life  would  be  possible  for  the  animal  called 
man.  Somewhat  sharper  in  intelligence  than  the 

[261] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

horse,  the  dog,  or  even  than  the  man-like  ape,  he 
might  be  allowed  to  be;  but  such  an  intellect 
could  not  serve  him  to  follow  the  career  of  an 
unfolding  moral  life. 

What  is  true  of  the  sources  of  the  moral  life  is 
true  of  its  Sanctions  also.  They,  too,  are  to  be 
found  as  ultimately  issuing  from  the  answer  to  the 
question,  What  is  it  to  be  a  person?  Moral  sanc- 
tions are  not  to  be  found  in  the  nature  of  things. 
The  very  phrase,  "the  nature  of  things,"  when 
considered  as  something  completely  separable 
either  in  conception  or  in  effect  from  the  nature  of 
man,  is  a  meaningless  abstraction.  No  impersonal 
realm  can  furnish  a  monarch  to  give  laws  to  any 
of  its  personal  subjects.  The  "nature  of  things" 
may  train  men  as  it  trains  tigers  and  rats  to  a 
sort  of  prudence  lest  they  be  caught  unawares  in 
some  one  of  the  many  traps  which  itself  sets  so 
ruthlessly  for  all  living  beings;  but  the  nature 
of  things  could  never  produce  in  non-personal 
beings  the  beginnings,  much  less  could  it  bring 
to  mature  development,  the  rational  obligations 
of  a  truly  moral  life.  We  do  indeed  speak  of  the 
animal  as  being  "bound"  to  this  or  that  course 
of  action  by  a  sort  of  inner  necessity; — as  certain 
birds,  for  example,  and  the  wild  beast  or  the  tame 
herd,  are  bound  to  the  care  of  the  young;  or  as 
the  entire  animal  tribe  acts  under  the  so-called 
"law  of  self-preservation."  But  this  manner  of 
binding  is  a  distinctly  different  thing  from  the 
sanctions  of  the  moral  consciousness,  or  the 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

rational  obligations  to  obey  a  moral  law  or  to 
pursue  a  moral  ideal. 

What  is  true  of  the  sanctions  of  the  moral  life, 
as  seen  from  the  subjective  point  of  view,  as 
regarded  by  the  moral  being  who  feels  or  thinks 
himself  under  obligation  to  obey  them,  is  also 
true  when  the  same  sanctions  are  considered 
objectively,  or  as  having  their  grounds  in  reality. 
Strive  to  conceive  of  a  Universe  devoid  of  the 
issues  of  personal  life;  what  resembling  a  valid 
reason  for  any  particular  manner  of  actions  and 
reactions  among  beings  driven  by  uncontrolled 
forces  toward  unapprehended  and  morally  indiffer- 
ent ends,  can  possibly  be  conceived  as  existing  in 
such  an  universe?  How  can  that  which  is  irra- 
tional in  its  nature  place,  or  have  placed,  its 
behavior  on  grounds  of  moral  obligation?  Planets 
are  bound  to  move  in  elliptical  orbits  around  the 
central  sun;  dual  stars  around  a  common  centre 
of  gravity;  and  the  moon  around  the  earth,  — 
but  not  by  way  of  awful  respect  and  conscious 
espousal  of  the  law  in  obedience  to  which  they 
move.  Feline  and  leonine  animals  of  the  larger 
breeds  are  bound  to  fight  with  one  another;  and 
all  of  them  to  prey  upon  the  weaker  of  the  same 
species  and  of  other  species.  And,  there  being 
nowhere  any  personal  life,  who  shall  say  them 
Yes!  or  Nay?  If  one  of  their  number  were  to 
issue  a  mandate  of  peace  and  good  will  for  the 
future;  how  without  having  himself  developed 
some  incipient  but  quite  decidedly  character- 

[263] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

istic  traces  of  personality  should  he  find  himself 
justifying  to  himself  the  justice  or  the  benevolence 
of  his  commands? 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  that  all 
the  particular  sanctions  to  which  men  appeal  as 
commending  certain  forms  of  conduct  and  for- 
bidding certain  other  forms  grow  out  of  personal 
relations,  and  can  be  conceived  of  only  in  terms 
of  such  relations.  Are  there  rights  to  be  asserted, 
defended,  or  annulled;  duties  to  be  done;  virtues 
to  be  cultivated  and  rewarded;  moral  blessings  to 
be  gained  or  moral  evils  to  be  avoided  and  pun- 
ished; moral  ideals  to  be  framed  mentally  and 
practically  realized;  —  all  these,  and  whatever 
else  has  the  slightest  trace  of  ethical  meaning, 
must  find  their  justification  in  the  essential  nature 
of  personality  and  the  essential  elements  of 
personal  relations. 

All  the  Values  that  are  ascribable  to  right 
conduct,  in  itself  and  in  its  consequences,  have 
their  final  issue  in  the  nature  of  personal  life  and 
in  the  relations  which  can  exist  only  between 
persons.  Beyond  this  life  itself,  there  is  nothing 
conceivable  that  has  value  or  that  can  furnish 
any  standard  of  values.  Beyond  the  value  of 
sharing  in  the  highest  and  best  of  this  personal 
life,  there  is  nothing,  either  as  a  type  of  existence 
or  as  a  continuous  state,  that  possesses  any  real 
worth.  "What  shall  a  man  give  (or  take)  in 
exchange  for  his  (personal)  life?"  To  answer 
"Nothing,"  as  though  one  were  estimating  values 

[264] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

in  a  comparative  way,  does  not  go  to  the  depths 
of  such  a  question.  For,  not  only  is  there  nothing 
in  value  to  be  compared  with  this  Me,  but  there 
is  no  standard  of  comparison  outside  of,  or  be- 
yond, the  issues  of  this  life.  It  embodies  all  values 
in  itself.  If  we  take  the  point  of  view  of  him 
who  put  before  us  this  question,  "How  much 
better  is  a  man  than  a  sheep?"  after  the  question- 
mark  we  can  only  place  the  sign  of  infinity.  So 
far  as  the  sheep  has  any  value,  it  must  be  stated 
in  terms  of  personal  worth.  For  we  are  not 
asking  the  market  price  of  the  two  —  of  the 
sheep  in  the  shambles  and  the  human  slave  on  the 
auction  block.  In  asking  the  question,  we  are 
not  simply  admitting  the  superior,  but  rather  the 
incomparable,  worth  of  personal  life. 

But  what  is  it  in  this  personal  life  that  gives 
to  it  its  own  incomparable  value,  and  its  right  \/ 
critically  to  estimate  all  other  values,  whether 
for  purposes  of  theoretical  comparison  or  practi- 
cal acceptance  and  rejection?  In  answer  to  this 
question  arises  the  debate  of  the  "schools  of 
ethics"  -hedonistic,  utilitarian,  legalistic.  To 
all  these,  Idealism  in  ethics  as  an  essential  and 
abundantly  well-proven  part  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  Ideal,  when  such  a  philosophy  founds  itself 
on  the  experience  of  facts  and  the  conceptions 
and  laws  which  constitute  the  body  of  the  modern 
sciences,  is  steadfastly  opposed. 

The  history  of  morals  has  by  this  time  ruled 
out  of  court  the  more  gross  forms  of  Hedonism. 

[265] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

The  attempt  to  find  all  the  worth  of  being  a 
person,  in  the  amounts  and  kinds  of  pleasure 
which  the  individual  succeeds  in  attaining,  has 
now  become  so  unsatisfactory  and  even  distaste- 
ful to  all  thinkers  on  ethical  problems,  that  its 
detailed  examination  is  scarcely  necessary  for 
the  modern  man  who  is  raising  in  a  serious  way 
the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do?  To  tell  such 
a  one,  "Get  for  yourself  as  much  pleasure  out  of 
life  as  you  possibly  can,"  would  either  send  him 
away  disappointed  and  disgusted,  or  else  reveal 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  asking  the  question 
conscientiously . 

Since  personal  life  is  sentient  life,  and  since 
man  above  all  the  other  animals  is  capable  of 
both  happiness  and  misery,  happiness  for  the 
individual  man,  as  of  necessity  for  all  sentient 
life,  is  a  good,  is  a  condition  that  has  a  value 
which  cannot  be  denied.  Pleasure  for  the  hu- 
man animal  is  well  worth  the  having;  and  with 
the  human  animal  the  price  of  pleasure,  like  the 
price  of  pain,  may  be  very  cheap.  "Given 
freedom  from  disease"  says  a  traveller  among 
them,  "and  a  slain  antelope,  and  there  could  be 
no  merrier  creature  than  a  Bushman."  And  if 
we  wish  to  conceive  in  more  poetical  and  fantastic 
way  the  supreme  values  of  that  mythical  being, 
the  so-called  "primitive  man,"  we  may  quote 
Browning  thereupon :  — 

"Oh  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 

....  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
[266] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river  channel. 

How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit  to  employ 

All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy!" 

Now,  in  fact,  neither  the  Bushman  nor  any 
other  specimen  of  the  primitive  man  leads  "the 
life  of  pleasure"  to  any  considerable  extent; 
nor  does  he  regard  his  duties  or  his  virtues  as 
either  tested  or  fully  rewarded  by  the  pleasures 
to  which  they  contribute.  The  savage,  or  the 
primitive  man,  leads  in  general  a  dull  and  miser- 
able life.  Indeed,  crude  ideas  of  duty,  and 
extravagant  and  perverted  loyalty  to  the  virtues 
of  courage  in  war  and  justice  in  private  revenge, 
are  the  chief  sources  of  human  misery  in  the  lower 
stages  of  moral  development.  It  is  not  the 
modern  civilized  Christian  solely  who  regards 
the  individual  person,  when  devoted  to  the 
securing  of  pleasure  by  all  means  for  himself, 
with  a  sort  of  moral  detestation.  There  is  no 
tribe,  or  other  social  organization,  that  would 
not  despise,  and  if  power  were  given  it,  quickly 
exterminate  such  a  despicable  member  of  the 
social  whole.  The  individual  who  makes  pleasure 
for  himself  the  sole  or  the  supreme  standard  of 
moral  worth  for  his  conduct  has  always  in  truth 
been  held  to  be  not  the  good  and  noble,  but  the 
mean,  bad,  and  selfish  man. 

But  this  bald  form  of  Hedonism  has  long  since 
ceased  to  command  the  countenance  of  theorists 
as  to  the  values  of  the  moral  life;  as  has  already 
been  said,  it  never  was  popular  and  from  the  very 

[267] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

necessities  of  social  organization  and  the  essential 
features  of  personal  relations,  it  never  could  be 
popular.  The  moment  we  try  to  modify  it, 
however,  while  clinging  faithfully  to  the  con- 
tention of  the  main  issue,  we  fall  into  difficulties 
which  are  no  less  real,  although  more  subtle  and 
concealed  from  the  superficial  view.  For  suppose 
that  we  introduce  distinctions  in  the  quality  and 
nobility  of  the  pleasure  which  it  is  our  duty  to 
seek  for  ourselves,  and  the  procuring  of  which 
furnishes  the  best  test  of  the  success  of  the  moral 
life.  Seeking  refined  pleasures  for  ourselves,  as 
a  main  end  thought  worthy,  seems  no  less  essen- 
tially selfish  to  the  refined  moral  consciousness 
than  making  the  aim  of  our  conduct  the  attain- 
ment of  pleasure  in  its  grosser  forms. 

But  there  is  another  fresh  difficulty  now  intro- 
duced. How  shall  one  know  what  are  the  nobler 
pleasures?  There  can  be  only  one  answer.  To 
test  the  worth  of  different  pleasures,  some  other 
standard  than  pleasure  itself  must  be  applied. 
This  standard  can  be  no  other  than  some  one 
of  the  several  issues  of  the  personal  life.  Worthy 
pleasures  are  pleasures  that  are  not  beastly  but 
are  worthy  of  personality.  Any  value  of  a  moral 
sort  which  they  may  have  must  be  compared 
with  the  values  inherent  in  the  very  nature  of 
personal  life.  In  this  life,  from  the  moral  point 
of  view,  pleasure  itself  cannot  be  the  thing  of 
supreme  worth. 

Somewhat  the  same  fate   awaits  all   the  so- 

[268] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

called  utilitarian  theories  of  ethics,  when  they 
are  subjected  to  a  searching  analysis  in  the  effort 
to  find  in  them  a  rational  justification  for  the 
sanctions  and  the  ultimate  values  of  the  moral 
life.  Here  the  worth  of  the  moral  life  is  found  in 
its  merely  instrumental  value,  its  ability  to 
promote  some  more  valuable  good  than  itself  is. 
Shall  we  then  say  that  the  morally  best  life  has 
value  just  because  it  can  perpetuate  mere  life, 
or  an  economically  successful  life,  or  a  life  of 
pleasure  —  to  take  again  the  point  of  view  of 
Eudaemonism  after  having  arrived  at  this  point 
of  view  by  a  somewhat  different  method  of  ap- 
proach? But  just  to  live,  and  to  live  in  comfort 
and  commercial  prosperity  or  amid  artistic  sur- 
roundings is  not  better  so  long  as  one  takes  and 
sticks  by  the  strictly  moral  point  of  view  than 
bravely,  constantly,  and  with  oneself  in  control,  to 
live  the  life  of  truth,  justice,  sympathy,  and 
helpful  kindness  and  devotion,  in  all  our  relations 
with  our  fellow  men.  For  we  have  not  all  along 
been  deceiving  ourselves  as  to  the  real  nature 
of  our  question.  We  have  not  been  raising  and 
answering  the  inquiry:  "How  shall  a  man  get 
comfortable  and  economically  independent,  if 
not  rich,  and  so  realize  in  his  experience  his  full 
share  or  more  of  these  confessedly  good  things?" 
We  have  been  all  along  raising  the  inquiries 
subordinate  to  the  main  question,  What  ought  I 
to  do?  And  we  seem  to  have  discovered  that 
the  life  which  proposes  to  live  in  loyalty  to  the 

[269] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

answer  to  this  question,  -  -  that  is,  the  truly 
moral  life,  —  is  itself  something  well  worth  while. 
That  this  life  has  value,  and  a  great  deal  of  value, 
a  species  of  value  that  is  unique  and  supreme,  — 
this  has  been  the  fine  discovery  which  we  have 
made,  the  treasure-trove  we  have  unearthed; 
and  we  are  not  going  to  throw  it  away,  or  cache 
it,  or  surrender  it  to  the  first  argument  for  a 
contesting  claim.  Indeed,  as  judged  by  every 
profoundest  argument,  as  tested  by  every  most 
conclusive  process  of  analysis,  and  as  weighed 
in  the  truest  and  most  delicate  scale  of  judgment, 
just  to  lead  this  moral  life,  because  it  is  the  only 
kind  of  life  worthy  of  a  person,  appears  to  us  the 
thing  best  worth  our  All  to  do.  In  a  word,  the 
values  of  personal  life  are  at  their  highest  as  set 
before  us  in 

"  .  .  .all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better." 

How,  indeed,  can  there  be  anything  better  worth 
living  for  than  just  the  living  of  this  kind  of 
personal  life? 

The  moral  life,  therefore,  cannot  have  its  End 
or  Final  Purpose  in  anything  above  or  beyond 
itself.  Its  end  is  in  itself;  when  this  is  reached, 
however  the  path  toward  this  end  may  lie  through 
pain  and  struggle,  the  final  purpose  of  personal 
development  has  been  fully  realized.  To  be 

[270] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

good,  in  the  ethical  meaning  of  the  word,  is  the 
end-all  of  getting,  and  using,  and  enjoying  goods 
of  every  other  kind.  For  the  perfection  of  the 
moral  life,  of  the  life  of  duty  and  virtue  and 
courageous  and  constant  loyalty  to  the  moral 
ideal,  is  the  expression  of  the  total  meaning,  and 
the  only  complete  attainment,  of  the  worthiest 
and  most  exalted  issues  of  personality.  When  we 
ask,  whether  flippantly  or  thoughtfully,  "What  is 
the  use  and  what  the  reward  of  pursuing,  and  of 
winning  in  the  pursuit  of  this  ideal?"  we  ask  a 
meaningless  question.  Its  usefulness  sets  the 
standard  for  all  other  uses;  the  reward  for  its 
attainment  is  the  ineffable  but  eternally  valuable 
riches.  Of  it  we  may  say  that  it  is 

"Inviolate,  unvaried, 
Divinest,  sweetest,  best." 

Such  rhapsodic  but  quite  justifiable  praises  of 
the  value  of  the  moral  ideal,  as  crowning  the 
values  and  defining  the  ultimate  issue  of  being 
a  real  person,  do  not  deprive  happiness  of  all 
claim  to  be  worth  having  for  ourselves  and  con- 
tributing to  others.  Our  view  does  not  diminish 
the  worth  of  good  conduct  or  its  obvious  usefulness 
by  way  of  increasing  comfortable  living  or  securing 
the  results  of  a  genuine  economic  prosperity. 
Such  questions  as  the  following  remain  quite  as 
pertinent  as  before.  Is  not  happiness  a  valuable 
and  even  essential  condition  of  the  development 
of  the  best  personal  life,  both  of  the  individual 

[271] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

and  of  society?  Has  not  happiness  a  certain 
value  of  its  own?  Were  dutiful  and  virtuous 
living  a  sure  means  to  bring  about  the  extinction 
of  the  human  race,  where  would  the  obligation 
to  such  a  life  for  the  individual  or  for  the  multi- 
tude find  its  reliable  ground  of  standing? 

We  may  answer  all  these  and  other  similar  ques- 
tions with  affirmations  and  concessions,  without  in 
the  least  diminishing  the  reasons  on  which  we  rely 
for  rejecting  every  possible  form  of  Eudsemonism 
and  Utilitarianism  in  ethics.  From  the  point  of 
view  of  the  truly  moral  life  —  its  sanctions,  its 
values,  and  the  ideal  which  marks  its  final  purpose, 
the  last  goal  in  its  race-course  —  happiness,  how- 
ever intimately  associated  with  morality,  is  second- 
ary, subsidiary,  and  worth  while  only  as  cause  and 
consequent  of  personal  development.  Usefulness 
is  indeed  demanded  as  the  measure  of  the  reality 
and  the  value  of  the  moral  life.  But  not  even 
the  happiness  of  others,  and  of  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him,  can  be  made  the  supreme  motive 
and  measure  of  the  good  man's  conduct;  nor  can 
his  success  in  ministering  to  this  happiness  be 
the  good  man's  highest  reward.  For  in  propor- 
tion as  he  desires  for  others,  as  for  himself  and 
even  more  abundantly,  the  choicest  rewards  and 
noblest  issues  of  the  personal  life,  he  will  wish 
for  them  what  he  has  learned  to  accept  for  him- 
self, only  such  happiness,  in  kind  and  amount,  as 
is  the  fit  accompaniment  and  legitimate  result  of 
leading  the  moral  life  amidst  the  difficult  and 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

painful  conditions  of  man's  present  physical  and 
social  environment  from  which  there  is  no  escape. 
And  indeed,  in  this  environment  at  present  there 
is,  and  so  far  as  we  can  see  candidly  into  the 
future  there  always  will  be,  an  immense  amount 
of  suffering  and  struggle  exacted  as  the  price  of 
attaining,  or  even  approaching,  the  perfection  of 
personal  life. 

All  this  it  is  popular  to  recognize.  The  stage, 
as  well  as  the  pulpit,  preaches  the  nobility  of 
heroic  endurance.  Wise  parents,  and  tender  as 
well  as  wise,  in  all  stages  of  social  development 
and  all  classes  of  society,  have  trained  their  off- 
spring not  to  think  of  pleasure  more  highly  than 
they  ought  to  think.  And  when  moral  philosophy 
undertakes  the  problem  of  making  distinctions  of 
value  in  the  kinds  of  pleasure,  or  happiness,  it 
finds  no  place  to  stop  until  it  descries  a  fine  blend 
of  all  the  values  of  personal  life  in  the  "blessed- 
ness of  righteousness." 

We  return  then  to  the  thesis  from  which  it 
seems  to  us  there  is  no  departure  possible  for  him 
who  finds  his  daily  personal  question  in  the  form, 
What  am  I  to  do?  while  seeking  its  final  issue  by 
groping  for  the  last  words  that  can  be  said  about 
the  sources,  the  sanctions,  the  values,  and  the 
ultimate  meaning  of  the  moral  life.  All  these 
questions  finally  merge  themselves,  and  are  lost 
but  only  to  be  found  again,  in  the  conception  of 
personality.  The  practical  outcome  of  this  search 
for  the  final  issue  of  the  moral  problem  is  the 

[273] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

exhortation:  "You  have  a  chance  to  become  a 
real  person  after  the  type  of  the  perfect  person; 
Seize  that  chance."  Or,  to  throw  the  exhortation 
into  the  hearty  and  inspiring  language  of  the 
naive  but  grandly  truthful  religious  consciousness: 
"You  have  a  call  and  an  opportunity  to  become 
a  'son  of  God'  after  the  likeness  of  the  Heavenly 
Father."  Improve  the  opportunity;  hold  it 
fast;  make  it  the  goal  of  your  life's  endeavor. 

For  the  individual,  then,  all  the  associated  values 
of  happiness,  beauty,  and  truth,  while  they  may 
not  be  identified  with  the  value  of  goodness,  seem 
in  some  sort  to  be  subordinated  and  contributory 
to  it.  Or,  should  we  not  the  rather  say,  that 
they  contend  for  place  under  its  headship  in  a 
kind  of  harmony  which  cannot  be  realized  amidst 
present  conditions  of  human  living,  but  which 
seems  dimly  to  anticipate  some  "far-off  divine 
event?" 

But  is  the  essence  of  morality  to  be  found  in 
seeking  this  harmony  for  oneself  alone?  The 
question  is  one  that  falls  apart  as  self -contradictory 
or  vanishes  into  the  thin  air  of  absurdity,  the 
moment  its  meaning  is  made  clear.  The  indi- 
viduality of  personality  is  no  such  simple  affair, 
is  no  mere  individuality;  an  alone  "person"  cannot 
exist  or  even  be  imagined.  Just  as  truly  as  there 
is  no  society  of  persons  that  is  not  constituted  of 
individual  persons;  just  so  truly  can  no  individual 
person  be  constituted  or  developed  except  as  in 
and  of  a  society  made  up  of  persons.  The  power- 

[274] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

ful  factors  of  heredity  and  the  strong  and  so  often 
determining  influences  of  environment  and  train- 
ing come  from  other  persons  than  the  individual 
Self.  The  duties  of  the  moral  life  all  imply  rela- 
tions with  other  selves.  The  virtues  are  social 
excellences.  The  very  arousement  of  the  idea  — 
not  to  say,  the  ideal  —  of  duty  implies  social 
obligation.  The  absolutely  lone  person,  if  he 
could  void  his  mind  completely  of  all  attribution 
of  personal  qualifications  to  the  Universe,  and 
could  absolutely  blot  out  every  image  of  unseen 
personal  life,  would  have  no  field  for  the  cultiva- 
tion or  the  exercise  of  the  virtues.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  how  he  could  form  the  faintest  conception 
of  what  it  is  to  be  a  virtue. 

But  more  obvious  and  more  important  still: 
The  values  of  the  moral  life  for  any  individual  are 
realizable  only  in  their  effect  upon  the  social  whole; 
the  moral  attitude  is  directed  toward  the  good  of 
society;  the  ultimate  goal  for  all  individual  persons 
is  the  progressive  attainment  of  the  social  ideal. 
Of  this  hope  the  "beacons"  are  the  men  who 

"...  fill  up  the  gaps  in  the  files, 
Strengthen  the  wavering  hands, 
'Stablish,  continue  the  march." 

The  very  obvious  and  important  nature  of  this 
truth,  however,  may  well  cause  us  to  hesitate 
before  much  that  seems  just  now  inseparably 
connected  with  the  invitation  to  so-called  "social 
service,"  and  with  the  means  that  are  so  enthusi- 

[275] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

astically  employed  to  secure  so-called  "social 
reform."  Social  service  is  comparatively  valueless 
and  ineffective  for  social  reform  unless  it  is  ini- 
tiated and  carried  on  with  the  goodwill  and  the 
wisdom  and  regard  for  justice  that  characterize 
the  life  developing  in  pursuance  of  the  moral 
ideal.  Morally  good  individuals  are  the  only 
persons  to  be  trusted  in  efforts  for  social  service; 
morally  good  individuals  are  the  only  constituents 
of  a  truly  reformed  society.  And  any  country 
or  community  which  does  not  produce  in  goodly 
numbers  such  individuals  can  never  be  made  into 
a  morally  worthy  social  whole.  Social  reform  can 
not  be  accomplished  in  the  lump.  God  himself 
takes  a  long  time  and  an  immense  amount  of 
pains  to  make  even  one  good  man.  Salvation 
does  not  come  either  to  the  individual  or  to  the 
social  whole,  by  way  of  the  multiplication  of 
societies;  and  there  are  already  with  us  an 
excessive  number  of  officers  and  servants  of  such 
societies  —  too  many  of  whom  are  abstracted 
from  the  percentage  of  the  population  that  is 
producing  anything  really  good. 

In  speaking  further  of  the  final  issue  of  the 
moral  life  we  need  only  refer  to  the  whole  swarm 
of  important  considerations  which  are  embodied 
in  the  other  of  the  two  words  chosen  for  our 
guiding  conceptions  in  all  the  preceding  Chapters. 
This  was  the  word  Evolution  or  Development. 
Some  of  the  factors  which  determine  the  course 
and  the  laws  of  the  evolution  of  the  moral  life 

[276] 


THE  FINAL  ISSUE 

have  their  correspondents  and  analogues  in  other 
fields  of  science  or  of  daily  experience.  The 
moral  life  is  subject  of  investigation  from  the 
biological  point  of  view;  or  from  the  point  of 
view  taken  by  the  student  of  economic  develop- 
ment. More  especially  is  the  evolution  of  moral 
life  a  study  for  the  expert  in  the  history  of  the 
customs  that  are  called  mores;  but  especially  for 
the  one  who  knows  the  fundamental  truths  of 
psychology  as  viewed  from  the  developmental 
point  of  view.  But  in  some  respects,  and  these 
the  most  important  of  all  respects,  the  evolution 
of  the  moral  life  is  quite  unique.  Its  unique 
features  —  such  as  the  feeling  "I  ought,"  the  feel- 
ing "I  can,"  and  the  moral  ideal  have,  however, 
already  been  sufficiently  described.  It  remains 
chiefly  to  insist  upon  the  fact  that  the  moral  life 
is  a  development,  and  can  only  be  comprehended 
or  lived  as  such.  It  implies  growth,  slow  growth; 
it  takes  time,  much  time;  it  suffers  from  neglect, 
suffers  much  from  any  neglect;  it  has  its  ever 
variegated  and  changing  ideals,  but  a  certain 
fixity  of  type.  They  who  would  secure  its  values, 
and  achieve  its  goal,  must  pay  the  price;  the 
price  is  large,  and  the  more  you  pay  on  it,  the 
more  pay  is  still  demanded;  but  payment  be- 
comes more  easy  and  even  joyful.  What  faiths 
and  hopes  may  help  the  soul  that  is  pursuing  the 
moral  problem  to  the  final  issue  will  be  suggested 
in  the  following  and  last  Chapter. 

[277] 


CHAPTER  XII 
MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

'OUCHING  the  relations  which  exist  be- 
tween the  nature  and  development  of 
moral  ideals  and  the  belief  in,  and  wor- 
ship of,  invisible  personal  powers;  and  touching 
the  separate  or  joint  influence  of  both  on  the 
conduct  of  life;  there  have  been  two  extreme 
opinions  held  by  writers  on  morality  and  religion. 
On  the  one  hand,  some  have  affirmed  the  complete 
identity  of  the  two;  but  on  the  other  hand, 
some  have  advocated  their  complete  separability. 
Neither  of  these  extremes  can  stand  the  test  of 
psychological  analysis  or  of  the  history  of  man's 
moral  and  religious  development.  Neither  of 
them  answers  satisfactorily  the  facts  of  the  indi- 
vidual's profoundest  and  inmost  experience. 

We  have  seen  that  the  moral  consciousness 
calls  out  and  exercises  the  entire  nature  of  man; 
intelligence,  heart,  and  will  are  all  demanded 
and  all  constantly  employed  in  the  effort  to  decide 
the  many  forms  taken  by  the  general  problem, 
What  ought  I  to  do  ?  Were  it  our  present  task, 
we  could  show  with  equal  clearness  and  certainty 
that  the  same  powers  of  human  nature  are  simi- 
larly employed  in  the  attempt  to  answer  the 
[278] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

several  problems  of  religious  belief  and  of  the 
conduct  of  life  in  accordance  with  this  belief. 
The  point  of  view  from  which  the  conduct  of  life 
is  regarded,  and  its  rules  and  maxims  determined, 
differs  in  the  two  cases;  and  so  does  the  direction 
in  which  conduct  is  turned;  and  to  a  less  extent, 
the  goal  at  which  it  is  directed.  And  yet  neither 
series  of  problems  can  be  settled  in  a  practical 
way  without  involving  the  other;  indeed,  the  two 
cannot  be  kept  separated  even  in  thought. 
When  the  ideal  of  the  moral  life  is  raised  by  an  act 
of  imagination  beyond  the  limitations  of  time  and 
sense,  —  if  we  may  be  allowed  for  the  moment 
this  figurative  and  somewhat  extravagant  way 
of  expressing  ourselves,  —  we  find  the  sanctions, 
the  confidences,  and  the  inducements  of  the 
personal  moral  ideal  merging  themselves  with 
that  larger  and  all  comprehending  Ideal  which 
philosophy  endeavors  to  expose  as  the  Ground  of 
all  Reality,  and  which  religious  faith  personifies 
and  worships  as  God. 

The  most  important  differences  between  moral- 
ity and  religion  are  two:  the  one  has  reference  to 
the  object,  the  other  to  the  point  of  view.  The 
object  on  which  morality  primarily  directs  our 
attention  is  our  fellow  men.  The  question  of 
duty  involves  something  to  be  done  which  is 
due  from  our  Self  to  some  other  Self.  We  are 
virtuous  or  vicious  as  a  man  among  men.  The 
disposition,  the  intention,  the  act,  is  right  or 
wrong,  as  an  affair  of  social  concernment.  The 

[279] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

customs  and  laws  of  the  society  of  which  we  are 
members  —  one  among  many, —  afford  the  first- 
hand sources  from  which  the  sanctions,  the  justifi- 
cation, the  rewards,  and  the  punishments  of  our 
individual  acts  are  most  obviously  derived.  Even 
when  these  customs  and  laws  have  to  do  with 
conventional  religious  observances,  the  nature  of 
the  object  to  be  attained  is  not  altered.  If  the 
gods  are  angry  with  any  impious  member  of 
the  tribe,  the  tribe  is  likely  to  suffer  for  it.  If 
individuals  or  the  minority  hold  opinions  that 
lead  them  to  the  open  practice  of  acts  of  irreligion 
which  the  majority  regard  as  sure  to  prove  prejudi- 
cial to  the  social  welfare,  such  acts  may  be  declared 
immoral  and  made  punishable  by  law;  — or  if 
not  by  law,  still  by  the  yet  more  efficient  punish- 
ment of  social  scorn  and  social  ostracism.  What 
is  called  the  separation  of  Church  and  State  has 
little  or  no  real  effect  on  the  nature  of  this  connec- 
tion. 

The  object  of  religious  faith  and  worship, 
however,  is  some  invisible  being  or  beings.  Its 
affiliations,  so  to  say,  are  with  a  society  that  is 
the  construct  of  the  imagination,  with  persons,  or 
a  Person,  who  must  be  revealed  by  some  notable 
natural  phenomenon  or  object;  or  by  the  mouth 
of  some  seer  or  priest,  or  prophet  (a  conjurer  or 
medicine-man  will  do);  or  by  some  inward 
breathing,  or  voice,  or  other  medium  of  inspira- 
tion. If  the  influences  of  philosophical  reflection, 
the  progressive  unification  of  the  positive  sciences, 

[280] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

and  religious  revelation,  have  combined  to  effect 
such  a  form  of  Theism  as  commends  itself  to 
mind,  heart,  and  will;  then  we  may  say  that  the 
conception  of  an  alone  God  becomes  the  Ideal  of 
all  personal  excellences.  Thus  the  Divine  Being, 
immanent  in  the  Universe  of  things  and  of  souls, 
becomes  the  object  of  filial  trust  and  devotion, 
the  One  in  whom  the  sanctions  of  right  living  are 
found,  and  to  whom  the  attempt  at  right  living 
is  a  rational  devotion. 

The  other  difference  between  morality  and 
religion  is  also  connected  with  the  social  idea  and 
the  sources  of  the  social  impulse.  Primarily  in 
its  initial  stages,  and  principally  in  all  its  stages, 
religion  is  an  affair  of  the  individual  soul.  Its 
first  and  constantly  repeated  question  is  not, 
How  do  you  stand  toward  society?  but,  How  do 
you  stand  toward  God?  And  this  is  a  question 
which  concerns  every  one  as  though  there  were 
no  other  one  in  all  the  wide  world.  Of  course  we 
do  not  mean  —  as  we  shall  make  haste  to  explain 
more  in  detail  —  that  religion  has  nothing  to  do 
with  social  betterment  and  social  reform;  on  the 
contrary,  we  believe  that  it  always  has  been  and 
always  must  be,  the  greatest  of  all  the  forces  that 
operate  to  lift  up  the  social  condition  and  to 
promote  the  social  welfare  of  mankind.  We 
believe  also  that  a  so-called  religion  which  does 
not  actually  do  this,  whatever  its  creed,  its  ritual, 
or  the  wealth  or  rank  or  political  influence  of  its 
constituency,  must  be  placed  very  low  down  in 

[281] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  scale  of  moral  values.  This  is  the  supreme 
test  of  Christianity  the  world  over,  at  the  present 
time.  Can  it  in  fact  redeem  society?  Better, 
from  the  moral  point  of  view,  the  crude  supersti- 
tion of  the  savage  whose  gods  are  at  any  rate 
alive,  than  the  formulated  beliefs  of  a  State 
Church  that  acknowledges  in  fact  no  control  over 
the  conduct  of  life  from  a  Living  God.  But  the 
social  power  of  religion  must  dwell  in  individuals 
who  have  taken,  as  lone  souls  and  each  for  himself, 
the  filial  attitude  toward  the  invisible  powers,  or 
the  One  Power  whom  the  Universe  reveals,  as 
Spirit  dealing  with  human  spirits,  one  by  one, 
and  one  at  a  time,  so  to  say. 

The  same  essential  relation  of  religion  and 
morality,  but  without  identification,  which  psy- 
chological analysis  supports,  is  further  distinctly 
and  sufficiently  confirmed  by  the  facts  of  history. 
On  this  broad  field  we  cannot  enter.  We  cannot 
even  step  over  its  threshold  in  any  way  of  examina- 
tion to  invite  the  confidence  of  others  hi  our  ipse 
dixit.  We  can  only  recite  a  few  of  the  author- 
ities with  whom  we  have  seen  quite  sufficient 
reason  to  range  ourselves  in  a  larger  treatise  on  the 
same  subject  (Chaps.  XXIV-XXVI,  "Philosophy 
of  Conduct,"  p.  552ff.):  "What  Pfleiderer  calls 
the  'positivist  view* — namely,  'that  at  first 
religion  and  morality  had  little  or  nothing  to  do 
with  each  other,'  he  declares  to  be  contradicted 
by  everything  we  know  of  the  early  history  of 
mankind.  Indeed,  the  same  authority  has  previ- 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

ously  asserted  the  truth  of  exactly  the  opposite 
proposition:  "The  historical  beginning  of  all 
morality  is  to  be  found  in  religion.'  In  a  more 
qualified  and  cautious  way  we  find  Wundt  affirm- 
ing in  his  treatise  of  Ethics:  'History  shows  that 
almost  all,  and  especially  all  the  more  significant 
forms  of  life,  have  their  root  in  religious  motives 
that  have  disappeared  from  the  consciousness  of 
a  later  age;  and  thus  teaches  that  man's  educa- 
tion in  custom  and  morality  begins  with  the  de- 
velopment of  religious  worship.'  And  Waitz, 
who  speaks  from  the  standpoint  of  the  most  sane 
and  accomplished  student  of  anthropology,  de- 
clares: 'There  is  hardly  a  more  trustworthy 
sign  and  a  safer  criterion  of  the  civilization  of  a 
people  than  the  degree  in  which  the  demands  of 
pure  morality  are  supported  by  their  religion  and 
are  interwoven  with  their  religious  life.'  An 
admirable  little  book  by  Roskoff  shows  how,  in 
the  natural  order  of  the  development  of  human 
life,  'Custom  and  the  Law  receive  divine  sanction, 
the  connection  between  religion  and  morality  is 
placed  in  clear  light,  and  the  two  appear  in  their 
reciprocal  relation.' 5! 

Of  course,  it  is  not  meant  that  many  customs 
which  we  of  today  rightly  regard  as  atrociously 
immoral,  such  as  prostitution,  murder,  robbery, 
and  adultery,  have  not  been  sanctioned  and  even 
commanded  in  the  name  of  religion;  nor  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  current  conceptions  of  the 
gods  have  uniformly  been  such  as  to  recommend 

[283] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

them  as  patterns  of  the  higher  morality.  Even 
that  conception,  for  which  in  its  clearest  and 
later  development  the  world  owes  an  immeasur- 
able debt  of  gratitude  to  the  Hebrew  prophets, 
the  conception  of  Jehovah,  as  a  God  of  Righteous- 
ness, was  not  in  its  earlier  form,  and  has  not  yet 
in  Christian  theology  been  shaped  so  as  to  be- 
come, the  faultlessly  moral,  personal  Ideal.  For 
the  ideals  of  both  morals  and  religion  have  been, 
and  still  are,  and  we  hope  ever  will  be,  in  a  course 
of  development.  Nor  do  we  mean  that  the 
twin  sisters  of  morality  and  religion  have  always 
trod  the  path  of  progress  with  an  even  step  and 
hand-in-hand.  But  always  the  two  have  been 
in  most  vital  and  influential  connection.  What 
men  believe  the  gods  are,  and  wish  men  to  do  and 
to  be,  cannot  help  powerfully  influencing  what 
men  think  that  they  themselves  ought  to  do  and 
be,  and  would  better  do  and  be,  if  they  wish  to 
stand  well  with  the  gods. 

But  the  problem  of  the  relations  of  morality 
and  religion  presents  itself  to  us  at  the  present 
time  in  a  far  more  concrete  and  practical  form. 
It  is  a  question  of  courses  of  action,  a  question  of 
life,  of  the  relation  of  the  moral  life  to  the  religi- 
ous life.  It  is,  the  rather,  the  problem  of  the  same 
life  regarded  from  two  somewhat  different  points 
of  view,  or  in  two  somewhat  different  but  closely 
related  aspects.  Our  one  leading  question,  to 
which  we  return  again  and  again  so  often  as  we 
seem  even  for  a  brief  time  to  wander,  recurs  in 

[284] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

this  form:  What  ought  I  to  do?  In  pursuit  of  an 
answer  we  have  been  led  to  the  conclusion  that 
every  person  is  bound,  by  the  essential  conditions 
and  unchanging  nature  of  his  personal  existence,  to 
set  before  him  an  ideal  of  personal  development 
in  social  relations  with  other  persons.  This  ideal 
has  claims,  has  sanctions,  and  has  a  worth,  quite 
unique  in  some  respects  and  in  some  respects 
incomparable,  though  closely  allied  to  the  ideals 
of  happiness  and  of  beauty.  What,  now  we  ask, 
has  religion  to  do  with  all  this?  Does  it  illumine, 
strengthen,  and  enforce  the  claims,  serve  to  place 
the  sanctions  on  a  more  solid  ground  of  reality, 
and  greaten  and,  as  it  were,  sanctify  the  worth  of 
the  moral  life?  We  believe  that  it  does  all  this. 
It  is  not  difficult  to  see  how  one's  mental  and 
practically  active  attitude  toward  the  World  in 
which  human  beings  are  set  for  their  struggle 
after  an  improved  social  life  should  affect  in  no 
small  degree  the  nature  of  the  struggle  itself. 
This  is  true  both  for  the  individual  and  for  society 
at  large.  Only  if  man  were  more  sadly  divided 
against  himself  than  he  happens,  or  —  shall  we 
not  say?  —  is  destined  now  to  be,  could  the  case 
be  otherwise.  Is  the  Universe  friendly  to  man? 
—  really  friendly,  in  his  struggle  upward;  espe- 
cially to  his  effort,  in  however  blind  and  halting 
fashion,  to  grasp  after  and  progressively  obtain 
an  increased  measure  of  moral  good,  and  of  all 
the  other  good  things  which  moral  goodness  may 
reasonably  be  supposed  to  have  in  its  train? 

[285] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

Does  It  sympathize  with  man,  appreciate  in  any 
real  and  helpful  way  the  meaning  of  his  trials; 
and  in  any  trustworthy  way  guarantee  the  suc- 
cess, and  the  reward  for  success,  of  his  efforts? 
Is  a  World  that  is  pledged,  to  the  very  core  of  its 
Being,  in  the  interests  of  social  righteousness,  a 
better  environment  for  the  individual's  efforts 
to  be  a  righteous  person,  living  and  working  for 
the  triumph  of  social  righteousness,  than  a  World 
that,  if  we  refuse  to  be  satisfied  with  empty  meta- 
phors which  cannot  be  translated  into  intelligible 
prose,  has  no  capacity  for  anything  of  the  kind? 
To  put  our  query  into  the  language  of  religion: 
Is  a  godless  Universe  more  favorable  to  the  aims 
and  efforts  of  the  moral  life,  than  a  Universe  whose 
very  being  is  the  manifestation  of  immanent 
Personal  Righteousness,  the  garment,  as  it  were,  of 
an  indwelling,  perfect  Holy  Spirit?  Or,  once 
more,  —  to  bring  back  our  question  to  its  more 
practical  form,  while  apologizing  for  any  seeming 
vulgarity  attaching  to  the  precise  manner  of  its 
asking:  Can  the  moral  life  "go  it  alone"  so 
reasonably  and  so  securely  as  when  it  joins  itself 
to,  and  walks  hand  in  hand  with,  the  life  of 
religion? 

There  is  indeed  something  wonderful  about  the 
way  that  the  mind  of  man  entertains,  and  his 
heart  and  will  cling  to,  the  ideals  of  morality  for 
the  individual  and  for  society.  It  is  an  amazing 
wonder,  when  you  come  to  think  soberly  about 
the  matter,  how  sublimely  strong,  how  power- 

[286] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

fully  sublime,  these  ideals  show  themselves  to  be. 
All  men  in  all  ages  have  fallen  far  short  of  them; 
multitudes  have  seemed  openly  to  disregard  and 
deliberately  to  violate  them;  but  in  their  secret 
hearts,  they  are  few  who  do  not  bow  with  respect 
before  them  in  some  of  their  more  imperfect, 
fragmentary,  and  even  grotesquely  misshapen 
forms.  On  the  other  hand,  there  have  been,  and 
there  still  are,  millions  of  men  and  women  who 
have  unflinchingly  or  even  cheerfully  braved 
much  suffering,  hardship,  loss,  and  death  itself, 
rather  than  be  false  to  their  conception  of  what 
some  duty  bade  them  do,  and  their  understanding 
of  what  some  of  the  more  cardinal  of  the  virtues 
demanded  they  should  bring  themselves  to  be. 
And  there  have  always  been  the  "good  few"  who 
have  placed  the  claims,  the  sanctions,  the  values, 
and  the  ends  of  the  moral  life  at  a  height  in  the 
scale  beyond  all  comparison.  Those  who  have 
been  wont  to  sneer  at  such  moral  optimismy  as  of 
the  temper  of  the  Pharisee,  of  the  man  who  is 
offensive  to  his  fellow,  because  he  seems  to  be 
saying,  "I  am  holier  than  thou,"  are  themselves 
compelled  to  resort  to  some  sort  of  hypocrisy  in 
the  effort  to  justify  or  to  cover  up  their  own 
breaches  of  the  moral  law.  There  is  no  other 
so  unimpeachable  witness  for  the  "categorical" 
claims  of  the  moral  life  as  this  immoral  act  of 
hypocrisy.  What  but  respect  for  morality,  either 
on  his  own  part,  or  on  the  part  of  his  fellow  men, 
could  induce  any  one  to  play  the  part  of  a  hypo- 

[287] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

crite?  Without  its  pretence,  individuals  and 
nations  cannot  fight  and  murder,  cannot  steal, 
cannot  gratify  hate  and  lust  and  greed. 

One  is  plunged  into  hopeless  difficulties  when 
one  attempts  to  give  a  satisfactory  account  to 
oneself  of  the  origin  and  development  of  the 
moral  ideal,  whether  for  the  individual  or  for 
society,  out  of  a  quite  godless  Universe.  If  the 
Universe  were  not  its  friend,  how  could  this  ideal 
gain  foothold  and  attain  its  strong  and  sublime 
position  in  the  minds,  and  hearts,  and  wills  of 
mankind?  Explanations  for  some  of  the  facts 
of  man's  moral  evolution  through  the  long  series 
of  centuries,  since  he  became  a  moral  being  in  any 
true  sense  of  the  words,  are  patent  enough.  A 
doughty  attempt  may  be  made  to  evolve  from 
these  facts  certain  formulas  which  bear  more  or 
less  resemblance  to  what  the  positive  sciences  of 
Nature  are  pleased  to  call  their  discovered  "laws." 
But  the  cases  are  not  very  strictly  parallel.  For 
the  facts,  whose  description  in  a  time-series 
constitutes  the  history  of  the  moral  evolution  of 
the  races  of  man,  themselves  have  their  last 
source  in  the  nature  of  the  world;  and  a  world 
that  has  in  it  no  moral  Nature  is  a  very  difficult 
world  from  which  to  evolve,  as  true  cause  of  real 
effects,  the  nature  of  a  moral  spirit  resembling 
that  which  moves  in  the  minds  and  souls  of  men. 
By  what  authority  can  a  Universe  that  thinks 
not,  and  serves  no  thought,  tell  me  what  I  ought  to 
think  it  right  to  do?  What  I  must  do  under  the 

[288] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

physical  necessity  of  saving  my  life,  of  providing 
it  with  food,  shelter,  the  gratification  of  sexual 
appetite,  and  the  other  goods  that  are  the  prizes 
of  certain  ways  of  behavior,  the  "constitution  of 
things"  —  as  we  are  wont  to  say  —  may  teach 
me,  if  I  live  long  enough  to  learn.  What  I  must 
do  to  avoid  extermination  or  extreme  discomfort 
and  suffering  at  the  hands  of  my  fellows,  who  are 
competing  with  me  for  an  undue  share  of  these 
same  goods,  might  come  to  me  as  the  result  of 
sufficient  experience  in  a  world  that  takes  no 
account  of  strictly  moral  values  or  of  the  worth 
of  moral  ideals.  But  morality  cannot  be  born  of 
physical  necessity  alone;  and  the  word  "must," 
however  frequently  and  sternly  spoken  by  this 
kind  of  necessity,  can  never  acquire  the  meaning 
of  the  ethical  words,  "I  ought." 

Surely,  then,  it  sets  the  mind,  in  the  exercise  of 
its  reasoning  powers  to  secure  the  interests  of  a 
whole-hearted  morality,  at  rest  in  no  small  degree, 
if  it  can  explain  its  own  experience  in  accordance 
with  the  principle  of  a  Universe  itself  moral  to 
the  core.  Thus  the  good  man  is  made  of  one 
mind  with  the  World  of  which  he  is  a  part.  Thus, 
as  moral  and  striving  after  moral  perfection,  a 
man  is  not  simply  one  thing  among  an  infinite 
number  of  other  like  or  unlike  things,  not  simply 
one  animal  of  a  species  distinguished  in  certain 
respects  above  other  animal  jspecies.  As  capable 
of  morality  he  becomes  a  person,  pledged  by  the 
gift  of  personality  from  a  divine  hand,  to  relations 

[289] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

of  sympathy  and  loyal  co-operation  with  the  One 
Person  whose  off-spring  he,  and  all  the  persons  in 
the  Universe,  have  a  valid  title  to  be  called. 
Surely  —  we  repeat  —  it  unifies  the  thoughts, 
helps  solve  mental  difficulties,  and  sets  the  mind 
at  rest,  if  the  good  man  can  get  and  keep  a  con- 
ception of  the  Universe  which  commends  itself 
from  the  most  exalted  point  of  view  as  assumed 
by  the  religious  consciousness. 

This,  however,  is  not  the  most  important 
service  which  religion  renders  to  the  man  who  is 
determined  to  be  loyal  to  the  ideals  of  the  moral 
life.  It  is  a  great  and  most  rational  addition  to 
the  sanctions  of  the  moral  life  if  one  may  find 
secure  ground  for  them  in  the  Universe  itself,  in 
the  one  all-embracing  Reality.  Some  of  these 
sanctions  seem,  when  considered  purely  from  the 
individual  or  even  from  the  historical  point  of 
view,  rather  shifty  and,  at  best,  only  partial  and 
temporary.  Indeed,  so  far  as  they  consist  in  the 
consent  awarded  to  particular  customs,  or  in  the 
commands  of  particular  legal  enactments,  or  in 
the  conclusions  of  professional  moralists  and 
casuists,  they  all  partake  more  or  less  of  this 
changeable  character.  We  long  to  ground  our 
moral  ideals  somewhere;  we  are  fain  to  find  their 
ultimate  sanctions  in  the  One  whom  philosophy 
calls  the  "World-Ground,"  and  religious  faith 
calls  God.  It  is  true  that  our  assurance  of  finding 
the  sanction  for  any  particular  deed  or  course  of 
conduct  by  ascribing  it  to  the  Will  of  God  is 

[290] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

liable  to  grievous  error  and  to  multitudinous 
mistakes.  The  "voice  of  God"  has  counselled 
men  to  not  a  few  misdeeds  and  even  horrid  crimes. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  scarcely  any 
other  maxim  more  frequently  pertaining  to  the 
conduct  of  the  moral  life,  or  more  influential  in 
its  guidance,  than  the  one  which  naively  affirms 
the  belief  that, in  general,  "the  voice  of  conscience" 
is  the  equivalent  of  the  "voice  of  God."  "There 
are  few  things  at  once  more  pathetic  and  more 
dignified  in  human  history  than  the  position  on 
questions  of  right  and  wrong  which  have  been 
taken,  in  loneliness,  by  the  always  few  devoted 
'followers  of  the  Lord/  when  the  popular  declara- 
tions were  all  the  other  way.  On  God's  side  stood 
the  Hebrew  prophets  when  his  people  were 
against  him  on  the  moral  issues  of  the  day.  On 
God's  side  stood  Socrates,  satisfied  that  the 
sanctifying  testimony  of  the  'daemon'  within  him 
was  better  to  follow,  even  at  the  cost  of  life,  than 
the  judgments  of  the  Athenian  demos.  On 
God's  side  stood  Martin  Luther  and  felt  that  it 
was  enough;  he  could  do  no  otherwise.  But  in 
less  conspicuous  and  in  historically  unimportant 
ways,  thousands  of  plain  men  and  women  are 
constantly  trying  to  invoke  the  divine  sanctions 
upon  their  conduct  of  the  path  of  life." 

Let  it  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that  the  point 
of  our  argument  is  not  the  untenable  conclusion 
that  the  confidence  of  the  appeal  for  divine 
sanctions  to  any  particular  deed  or  course  of 

[291] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

conduct  completely  justifies  its  morality,  much 
less  secures  its  infallibility.  Moral  judgment, 
like  all  other  human  judgment,  is  always  liable  to 
fallibility.  The  hypocrisy  which  varnishes  over 
selfishness  in  the  name  of  religion  is  no  better  and 
no  worse  than  the  hypocrisy  which  does  the  same 
thing  in  the  sacred  name  of  morality.  Sincere 
piety  and  sincere  loyalty  to  moral  principle  are 
not  always,  alas!  combined  with  the  utmost 
wisdom  in  practical  affairs.  But  the  truth  for 
which  we  contend  is  this:  The  support  which 
piety  gives  to  the  desire  to  know  and  do  the  right 
thing,  by  way  of  the  appeal  which  piety  may 
honestly  make  to  the  divine  authority,  adds  great 
strength  and  breadth  to  the  sanctions  of  morality. 
The  morally  good  is  more  clearly  and  forcibly 
made  sacred,  when  it  is  considered  as  the  ordi- 
nance of  an  unchanging  Divine  Spirit.  The 
tribute  paid  by  the  chorus  in  Sophocles'  "King 
(Edipus"  to  the  power  of  religious  feeling  in 
its  support  of  dictates  of  conscience  is  as  rational 
from  the  philosophical  point  of  view  as  it  is 
poetically  beautiful: 

"Oh  may  I  live 

Sinless  and  pure  in  every  word  and  deed, 
Ordained  by  those  firm  laws  that  hold  their  realm  on  high! 
Begotten  of  heaven,  of  brightest  ether  born, 
Created  not  of  man's  ephemeral  mould." 

And  in  fact,  not  only  Christianity  but  all  the 
greater  religions,  are  on  the  whole  the  principal 
supporters  of  the  sanctions  of  the  moral  life. 
[292] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

There  are  certain  of  the  sweeter  and  more 
beautiful  of  the  virtues,  for  which  it  is  difficult 
to  find  any  rational  grounds  of  sanction  outside 
of  the  religious  view  of  the  World  and  of  man's 
relations  to  it  as  somehow  the  mysterious  mani- 
festation of  a  Spirit  committed  to  the  obligations 
and  the  issues  of  the  perfect  moral  life.  Of  such 
virtues  we  mention  the  following  four:  patience, 
reverence,  humility,  and  resignation.  But  in 
order  to  make  this  clear,  it  is  necessary  to  dis- 
tinguish carefully  between  the  reality  and  the 
appearance  of  these  morally  right  "dispositions" 
toward  the  world  of  things  and  of  men.  As  most 
genuine  and  conspicuously  worthy  of  moral 
approbation  these  dispositions  are  all  dependent 
in  no  uncertain  way  upon  the  spirit  of  piety. 
For  example:  the  virtue  of  patience  is  not  sullen 
despair  or  the  enforced  but  untrustf ul  and  unloving 
acceptance  of  evils  which  we  cannot  avoid,  or 
from  which,  if  they  have  once  seized  upon  us,  we 
cannot  shake  ourselves  free.  It  is  true  that,  not 
only  the  appearance  but  the  reality  of  a  virtuous 
patience,  is  largely  a  matter  of  temperament  and 
of  conditions  of  the  nervous  system.  But  the 
attitude  which  the  soul  has  toward  the  unavoid- 
able ills  of  life,  when  it  is  simply  yielding  to  the 
inevitable  in  an  openly  quiet  manner,  because  of 
the  uselessness  of  struggle  and  debate  with  a 
Nature  that  cares  not,  and  heeds  not,  what 
becomes  of  the  individual,  is  a  very  different 
attitude  from  that  filial  spirit  of  endurance  which 

[293] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

provides  its  justification  in  the  faith  that  all  is 
subject  to  a  righteous  and  loving  will.  The  man 
who  sets  his  teeth  and  makes  no  sign,  when  a 
resistless  and  blind  fate  has  seized  him,  may  indeed 
display  the  qualities  of  a  moral  hero;  but  he 
cannot  well  exercise  the  gracious  virtue  of  patience 
in  the  spirit  of  a  sincere  piety. 

A  certain  feeling  of  awe,  that  is  not  wholly  a 
blind  animal  terror,  is  the  quite  natural  attitude 
of  all  men  toward  the  more  impressive  exhibitions 
of  the  tremendous  forces,  and  the  more  significant 
events,  of  Nature,  —  sea  and  land,  mountain  and 
valley,  jungle  of  tropical  forest  and  treeless 
steppe.  Not  only  the  bigness  and  might  of  the 
world  of  things,  but  its  mystery,  seduce  the 
thoughtful  contemplator  of  its  ways  of  behavior 
into  endless  musing  over  the  depths  of  its  secrets 
and  the  infinite  reaches  and  heights  of  its  sub- 
limity. The  savages  of  the  American  forest  and 
of  the  Islands  of  the  South  Seas  agree  with  the 
Hebrew  prophets  in  believing  that  the  Divine 
Voice  is  in  the  thunder,  in  the  wild  shriek  of  the 
tempest,  and  in  the  sullen  roar  of  the  sea.  All 
men  from  tune  immemorial  have  felt  reverence, 
have  paid  worship,  before  the  hidden  forces  that 
work  in  everything  which  lives  and  grows.  In- 
deed, it  is  this  worship  of  the  mystery  of  life 
which  has  ministered  to  some  of  the  most  appall- 
ing forms  of  cruelty  and  lust. 

The  modern  positive  sciences  have  not  dimin- 
ished this  irresistible  call  to  the  feeling  of  mystery 

[294] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

before  natural  forces  and  natural  phenomena. 
On  the  contrary,  all  their  discoveries  have  con- 
spired to  deepen  this  feeling  and  to  render  it 
more  rational.  The  Universe  can  no  longer  be 
regarded  as  a  huge  but  rather  clumsy  machine; 
it  is  at  least,  if  only  a  mechanism,  an  infinitely 
intricate  and  wonderfully  balanced  and  know- 
ingly self-controlled  (sic)  piece  of  mechanism. 
We  do  not  wonder  that  men  have  worshipped 
Nature,  in  parts  or  as  a  whole;  however  purely 
scientific,  we  cannot  help  ourselves  taking  a 
reverential  attitude  before  It. 

And,  indeed,  to  be  irreverent  toward  the 
Universe,  from  whatever  point  of  view  one  elects 
to  regard  it,  has  never  seemed  to  thoughtful  men 
quite  the  right  thing  morally.  To  swear  at  the 
world  of  things,  or  shake  our  fists  and  utter  our 
oaths  in  the  face  of  earthquakes,  floods,  and 
storms  at  sea,  does  not  appear  the  correct  answer 
to  the  question,  What  ought  I  to  do  under  great 
provocation?  Such  conduct  seems  not  merely 
silly,  but  positively  immoral.  It  almost  appears 
as  though  we  attributed  to  it  a  bit  of  that  foolish- 
ness which  an  ancient  writer  says  belongs  to  all 
those  who  "say  in  their  heart,  'there  is  no 
God.":  But  why  this  feeling  akin  to  reverence, 
if  it  is  not  quite  reverence,  when  the  system  of 
things  is  mere  mechanism,  without  moral  char- 
acter and  moral  interests  and  moral  reference?  Is 
not  the  feeling  itself  a  witness,  however  unrecog- 
nized and  involuntary,  to  the  conviction  that 

[295] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

the  Universe  cannot  be  treated  practically  as 
mere  mechanism?  It  positively  must  be  regarded 
as  having  mental  and  moral  significance.  It  has, 
indeed,  profound  mystery;  it  behaves  in  ways 
which,  when  copied  by  men,  we  have  to  regard  as 
ethically  monstrous;  it  plays  us  "tricks,"  if  you 
please  to  call  them  such,  that  are  very  incon- 
venient and  apparently  unworthy  of  a  claim  to 
goodness.  And  yet  the  moral  consciousness  of 
the  greater  part  of  humanity  has  rather  stead- 
fastly maintained  that  it  is  not  right  to  treat 
Nature  with  irreverence. 

We  are  not  writing  a  treatise  on  theology,  or 
attempting  some  new  and  improved  form  of  a 
Theodicy.  But  let  us  notice  briefly  the  effect  on 
this  virtue  of  reverence,  of  taking  the  pious  point 
of  view.  Let  us  introduce  a  confident  faith  in 
Providence  into  our  own  experiences  with  the 
forces  and  the  phenomena  of  Nature.  By  the 
confidence  of  faith  we  do  not  understand  the  be- 
lief that  the  world's  affairs  are  conducted  with 
the  very  special  purpose  of  serving  what  we  as 
individuals  are  surest  would  be  best  for  us,  but 
what  in  no  respect  most  surely  would  be  best. 
Nor  do  we  mean  that  natural  phenomena  are 
the  manifestations  of  capricious  will,  drawn 
hither  and  thither  by  conflicting  interests  or 
competing  petitions  for  its  favors.  Such  selfish 
superstitions  furnish  no  food  for  a  pious  attitude 
of  reverence  toward  the  Divine  Being,  the  works 
of  his  hand,  and  the  wisdom  of  his  decrees.  On 

[296] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

the  other  hand,  it  can  scarcely  be  denied  that 
the  faith  (if  one  can  honestly  attain  it)  of  a  piety 
which  looks  on  all  these  happenings,  however 
hidden  their  connections  in  fact,  and  however 
mysterious  their  outcome,  as  under  the  control 
of  a  wise  and  loving  personal  will,  makes  the 
virtue  of  reverence  more  reasonable  and  more 
gracious. 

Somewhat  the  same  things  may  be  said  of 
humility  that  have  already  been  said  of  the  virtue 
of  patience.  It  is  no  wonder  that  the  Stoics 
despised  the  Christian  virtue  of  humility,  so  little 
did  they  understand  its  real  nature.  But  while  / 
as  a  genuine  virtue  its  foundations  are  in  the 
spirit  of  piety,  its  exercise  has  not  been  confined 
to  Christianity  alone.  Humility  is  a  virtue 
which  lies  low  (humilis)  before  God  alone  but 
stands  erect  before  men.  It  was  the  virtue  which 
mingled  with  courage  when  the  ancient  prophet 
defied  his  king:  "As  Jehovah  of  hosts  liveth, 
before  whom  I  stand."  It  was  in  the  lion-hearted 
modern  man,  whose  epitaph  reads:  "Fearing 
God,  he  feared  naught  else  beside."  It  is  one  of 
the  essential  characteristics  of  the  piety  of  the 
Japanese  Bushido;  for  the  spirit  of  the  brave 
knight  must  prompt  him,  while  quite  fearless,  to 
bow  low  before  his  liege  lord.  In  order  not  to 
think  of  oneself  more  highly,  or  less  highly,  than 
one  "ought  to  think,"  it  is  a  help  to  think  of 
oneself  as  always  "in  the  sight  of  God." 

As  a  result  of  the  moral  career  amidst  the  dis- 

[297] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

appointments,  losses,  and  inevitable  failures,  as 
well  as  the  mistakes,  which  accompany  the  path 
of  life,  the  sweetest  fruit  of  maturity  is  the  virtue 
of  a  pious  resignation.  But  least  of  all  the 
virtues  is  this  to  be  confounded  with  any  of  its 
counterfeits.  It  is  neither  the  Shikata  ga  nai 
("it  cannot  be  helped")  of  the  careless  Japanese 
servant,  or  the  "game  is  up"  of  the  unlucky 
gambler.  It  is  the  calm  confidence  with  which 
the  pious  good  man  can  review  his  career  and 
say:  "I  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  labored.  All 
is  well." 

Religion  also  supports  and  strengthens  the 
moral  life  by  heightening  and  securing  its  values. 
Morality  may  indeed  claim  a  worth  of  its  very 
own.  So  it  presents  itself  to  the  most  enlightened 
moral  consciousness  of  mankind.  If  there  were 
no  future  life,  if  there  were  no  God,  still  we  seem 
bound  —  however  irrationally  and  hopelessly  — 
to  cling  to  our  faith  in  the  supreme  worth  of 
the  moral  ideals.  But  the  riddle  of  Why  (?)  we 
should  esteem  this  ideal  of  morality  to  be  of  such 
priceless  value  in  a  godless  Universe  seems  hope- 
lessly dark.  The  practical  confidence  that  it  is 
indeed  so,  in  a  Universe  that  itself  has  no  standards 
of  value  to  which  we  can  appeal  in  any  ultimate 
way,  makes  a  heavy  drain  on  one's  credulity  and 
on  the  tightness  of  one's  grip  upon  the  maxims 
of  a  righteous  life. 

In  one  of  the  many  and  not  always  consistent 
utterances  of  the  late  Professor  Huxley  respecting 

[298] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

the  relations  of  Nature  to  the  moral  life  of  man, 
he  makes  such  declarations  as  the  following: 
All  the  efforts  of  science  "have  utterly  failed  to 
bring  the  order  of  things  into  harmony  with  the 
moral  sense  of  man";  the  "injustice  of  the  nature 
of  things"  is  quite  "unfathomable";  "the  cosmic 
process  has  no  sort  of  relation  to  moral  ends." 
It  would  seem  to  need  no  argument  to  show  that 
such  a  view  as  this  tends  to  lessen  the  estimate 
of  the  worth  of  man's  moral  sense,  and  of  the 
value  of  those  moral  ends,  which  are  so  con- 
tradicted by  everything  which  the  positive  sciences 
have  discovered  concerning  the  nature  and  work- 
ing of  the  "cosmic  process."  But  the  faith  of 
religion  points  in  directions  quite  the  opposite  of 
these.  In  its  naive  form  it  holds  with  the  utter- 
ance of  the  Sanscrit  drama,  in  which  the  parasite 
of  a  wicked  prince,  when  his  master  is  trying  to 
persuade  him  to  commit  murder,  because  there 
would  be  no  one  near  to  witness  the  act,  replies: 

"All  nature  would  behold  the  crime, 
The  genii  of  the  grove,  the  sun,  the  moon, 
The  winds,  the  vaults  of  heaven,  the  firm-set  earth." 

By  reflective  thinking,  moral  philosophy  arrives 
at  the  conclusion  of  Fichte:  "The  world-order 
is  in  the  last  analysis  a  moral  order."  This 
brings  science  and  philosophy  into  face-to-face 
and  irreconcilable  conflict,  but  with  religion  on 
philosophy's  side.  For  what  the  latter  does  in  a 
practical  way  for  every  believer  in  a  Spirit  of 
righteousness  as  immanent  in  the  cosmic  processes 

[299] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

is  no  less  than  this:  Religion  infinitely  increases 
the  moral  values  by  lifting  them  into  the  realm  of 
the  eternal.  This  enormous  rise  in  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  the  moral  life,  the  attitude  of  piety 
toward  the  Universe  secures,  for  both  the  in- 
dividual and  the  race. 

If  death  ends  all  for  all,  and  the  end  of  all 
things  is  to  be  looked  for  in  an  enormous  burned- 
out  coal  or  expanse  of  dissipated  gas,  it  is  foolish 
to  contend  that  the  values  of  moral  acquisitions 
and  final  purposes  are  in  no  way  affected  thereby. 
But  the  philosophical  and  theological  demonstra- 
tions of  the  innate  and  essential  indestructibility 
of  the  individual  person  (the  so-called  "proofs" 
for  the  immortality  of  the  soul)  have  ceased  to 
convince  the  minds  who  know  the  physical  and 
psycho-physical  facts,  as  they  once  did.  The 
modern  appeal  to  senuous,  psychic  manifestations 
of  departed  spirits,  which  in  itself  is  as  old  as  the 
history  of  human  superstitions,  has  not  as  yet 
given  itself  enough  of  scientific  form,  or  disclosed 
enough  of  evidence,  to  restore  the  confidence 
that  has  been  voided  by  the  lapsing  of  these 
proofs.  The  cosmic  processes  still  seem  very 
dubious  in  their  witness  as  to  what  the  individual 
may  expect,  who  does  not  base  his  hopes  for  the 
life  beyond  upon  religious  faith.  How,  then, 
shall  the  individual  assure  himself  that  the  issues 
of  his  life  from  the  moral  point  of  view  are  of 
enough  lasting  worth  to  warrant  all  the  struggle 
and  self-denial  which  must  be  spent  upon  them? 

[300] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

Now  we  are  far  enough  from  advocating  the 
doctrine  that  some  kind  of  pay  of  future  happi- 
ness to  be  gained,  or  of  future  misery  to  be  avoided, 
must  be  conceived  of  as  a  reward  for  the  knight 
who  is  faithful  up  to  death  in  the  battles  cease- 
lessly being  fought  over  moral  issues.  Nor  do 
we  think  that  the  "icy  guerdon"  of  an  all-powerful 
and  relentless  Judge  must  be  appealed  to  in  order 
to  make  the  moral  life  well  worth  the  living  for 
the  sincerely  good  man.  All  our  examination 
hitherto  has  fostered  the  conclusion  that  just  the 
being  a  good  man  is  in  itself  well  worth  the  while. 
But  surely  to  continue  on  into  eternity  this 
growth  in  goodness  increases  the  values,  and 
greatens  the  importance  of  the  issues,  of  the 
moral  life  for  the  individual.  But  what  is  even 
more  important  to  notice  is  this.  The  essential 
worth  of  the  moral  life  of  the  individual  is 
measured  by  its  social  influences.  Just  to  in- 
crease—  by  ever  so  little  —  the  happiness  and 
welfare,  but  above  all  the  moral  welfare,  of 
others  that  are  living  with  us  and  that  will  live 
on  after  us,  may  reasonably  be  held  to  make  the 
life  of  the  good  man  better  worth  the  while.  But 
suppose  "the  while"  of  this  beneficent  influence 
stretches  itself  away  into  the  region  of  the  eternal; 
is  not  the  worth  still  more  enhanced? 

We  have  already  criticised  some  of  the  current 
views  and  practices  of  so-called  social  service; 
and  of  the  prevailing  appetite  for  reforms  in  the 
lump.  With  all  its  nobleness  of  aim  and  en- 

[301] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

couraging  results,  the  "movement"  is  far  more 
ineffective  than  it  should  be;  and  this  is  largely 
through  its  failure  to  bring  the  ideas  and  motives 
of  the  religious  life  to  bear  upon  the  individual 
man.  For  it  is  religion  which  has  chiefly  supplied 
the  individual  with  ideas  and  motives  for  effective 
social  service  in  the  past;  and  unless  we  have 
greatly  misinterpreted  the  facts  of  human  nature, 
we  shall  have  to  look  in  future  chiefly  to  the 
same  source  for  our  supply.  Unless  I  can  see 
that  my  duty,  my  virtuous  living,  my  adherence 
to  the  ideal  of  the  moral  life,  involve  endless  issues 
of  good  or  evil  for  myself  and  others,  I  cannot 
enjoy  all  that  is  possible  for  enforcing  the  rational 
sanctions  and  lifting  up  the  values,  of  such  a 
life.  "God  is  the  Father  of  mankind"  said 
Epictetus;  and  "from  the  doctrine  of  our  rela- 
tionship to  God  we  are  to  deduce  its  conse- 
quences," —  consequences,  that  is,  in  the  rules  and 
practice  of  right  living.  "Seek  the  most  perfect 
way"  we  read  in  the  Maxims  of  Ptah-hotep  ("the 
oldest  book  in  the  world")  "that  thy  conduct 
may  be  above  reproach.  Justice  is  great,  invari- 
able, and  assured;  it  has  not  been  disturbed  since 
the  age  of  Osiris.  .  .  .  Let  thy  love  pass  into  the 
heart  of  those  that  love  thee:  cause  those  about 
thee  to  be  loving  and  obedient  .  .  .  thou  art 
become  the  steward  of  the  good  things  of  God." 

But  it  is  in  respect  of  the  Ideal  of  the  moral 
life  that  religion  exercises  its  supreme  influence. 
For  the  pious  individual  his  ideal  is  to  become 

[3021 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

the  "son  of  God,"  perfect  as  the  Father  in  Heaven 
is  perfect.  For  the  social  conception  of  an 
economically  prosperous  community,  religion  sub- 
stitutes the  conception  of  a  perfected  Kingdom  of 
God.  Like  all  other  of  the  more  vague  and 
comprehensive  of  human  ideals,  this  one  has 
taken  many  shapes;  without  doubt  it  has  not  yet 
reached  its  final  and  unimpeachable  form.  But 
rightly  understood,  even  from  our  present  re- 
stricted and  essentially  earthly  point  of  view,  it 
is  the  grandest  of  all  ethical  conceptions.  For 
the  individual  and  for  the  race,  to  go  forward 
toward  this  incomparable  goal  of  endeavor  is  to 
pursue  the  Way  of  Salvation.  Precisely  what 
that  way  is  at  every  step,  we  are  no  more  able  to 
define  for  every  man  and  for  all  time  than  we  are 
able  to  define  the  exact  path  by  which  every 
individual  must  walk  toward  the  moral  ideal. 
By  general  consent  of  the  most  enlightened  (not 
the  modern  heretics  alone,  but  the  orthodox  of 
all  time)  it  is  not  a  formulated  creed,  or  "flowery 
talk"  from  those  "enamored  of  Vedic  words." 
By  common  consent,  too,  it  is  not  a  matter 
of  external  appearances,  a  kind  of  will-worship 
only.  By  common  consent,  too,  even  the  Church- 
father  Augustine  is  convicted  of  deadly  error 
when  he  says:  "A  man  can  have  everything 
outside  the  Church,  only  not  salvation;  and 
though  he  thinks  he  is  living  a  good  life,  yet  for 
the  one  crime  of  schism  from  the  Church  he  will 
not  have  part  in  life,  but  the  wrath  of  God  abides 

[303] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

on  the  schismatic."  For  the  Kingdom  of  God  is 
more  than  all  the  churches.  By  common  consent, 
the  way  of  salvation  is  a  life;  but  the  life  of 
religion  demands  intellect,  heart,  and  will,  united 
in  loyalty  of  active  and  fruitful  devotion  to  the 
Ideal  of  religion;  and  the  Ideal  of  religion  is  the 
Kingdom  of  God,  and  for  each  individual  a  place 
and  a  work  in  that  Kingdom. 

Thus  in  the  faraway  future  do  morality  and 
religion  seem  to  come  together  in  their  conception 
of  the  supreme  ideal  of  both.  But  "only  as  the 
spirit  of  unity,  and  as  an  essential  agreement 
concerning  the  content  of  religious  faith  and 
concerning  the  way  of  salvation,  are  secured  and 
perfected,  is  any  tendency  toward  an  all-embracing 
social  organization  desirable  or  at  all  likely  to  be 
affected.  As  contributing  to  such  a  social  com- 
munion, all  devout  souls  must  welcome  (1)  an 
increased  understanding  of  each  others'  positions; 
(2)  a  continued  improvement  of  those  conceptions, 
sentiments,  and  forms  of  life,  which  are  char- 
acteristic of  what  is  best  in  all  the  purest  and 
most  rational  religions;  (3)  a  growing  willingness 
to  abandon  the  false  for  the  true,  the  ethically 
inferior  for  the  ethically  superior,  wherever  truth 
and  moral  excellence  are  to  be  found;  and,  finally, 
(4)  the  general  progress  of  intellectual  enlighten- 
ment and  social  betterment." 

The  living  and  indissoluble  relation  between 
these  two  sources  of  human  aspiration  and  en- 
deavor, as  they  run  side  by  side  in  history,  has 

[304] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

been  correctly  though  imperfectly  expressed  by  a 
modern  writer  on  "The  Origin  and  Growth  of 
the  Conception  of  God"  in  the  following  words: 
"Thus  Religion  and  Morals  react  one  upon 
another,  the  idea  of  duty  purifying  the  conception 
of  deity;  and  the  latter,  in  its  turn,  fortifying  the 
feeling  of  obligation,  while  fructifying  it  with 
love."  (D'Alviella,  p.  177.)  Both  morals  and 
religion  are  in  a  process  of  evolution,  the  goal  of 
which  is  the  social  Ideal  which  religion  calls  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,  the  Kingdom  of  God.  At 
the  nearer  end  of  this  process  we  are  invited  to 
imagine  a  Plato's  Republic,  or  to  conceive  of 
some  happy  and  prosperous  Israel  under  the 
rule  of  Yahweh.  At  the  other  end  stands  the 
Apocalypse  of  "a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth" 
and  "a  great  city,  the  holy  Jerusalem,  descending 
out  of  heaven  from  God."  Then  "the  nations 
of  them  that  are  saved  shall  walk  in  the  light  of 
it";  "and  there  shall  be  no  more  curse;  but  the 
throne  of  God  and  the  lamb  shall  be  in  it;  and 
his  servants  shall  serve  him;  and  they  shall  see 
his  face,  and  his  name  shall  be  in  their  fore- 
heads." 

But  to  translate  this  poetry  into  prose  who 
should  aspire  or  even  care?  Enough  for  the 
individual  that  he  should  give  practical  heed  to 
the  exhortation  of  the  wise  Plato:  "Wherefore 
my  counsel  is,  that  we  hold  fast  to  the  heavenly 
way  and  follow  after  justice  and  virtue  always, 
considering  that  the  soul  is  immortal  and  able  to 

[305] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

endure  every  sort  of  good  and  every  sort  of  evil. 
Thus  shall  we  live  dear  to  one  another  and  to  the 
gods,  both  while  remaining  here  and  when,  like 
conquerors  in  the  games  .  .  .  we  receive  our 
reward."  Or  better  still,  to  conduct  the  moral 
life  under  the  rule  of  the  great  teacher  and  ex- 
ample: "No  man  can  serve  two  masters;  for 
either  he  will  hate  the  one  and  love  the  other;  or 
else  he  will  hold  to  one  and  despise  the  other. 
Ye  cannot  serve  God  and  mammon."  "But  seek 
ye  first  his  kingdom  and  his  righteousness;  and 
all  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  you." 

But,  What  ought  I  to  do  about  all  this?  For 
the  man  who  already  has  the  faiths  and  hopes 
and,  at  least  in  some  genuinely  influential  degree, 
the  motives,  for  the  religious  life,  the  answer  to 
this  personal  and  eminently  practical  problem  is 
plain  enough.  It  amounts  to  economizing  and 
harmonizing  the  energies  of  mind,  heart,  and  will. 
Religion  and  morality  join  their  sanctions,  com- 
bine their  values,  unite  their  forces,  in  the  pursuit 
of  the  Ideal  in  which,  at  the  lowest  point  and  at 
the  highest  point  that  fix  the  line  for  the  conduct 
of  life,  they  both  coincide.  But  how  about  the 
man  who  has  not  these  faiths  and  hopes,  and  who 
cannot  honestly  submit  his  will  to  the  motives 
that  give  energy  and  efficiency  to  the  truly 
religious  life?  What  ought  he  to  do?  Certainly 
not  play  the  hypocrite  or  sacrifice  his  reason 
before  conventional  or  antiquated  superstitions. 
To  do  this  would  be  to  forfeit  the  sanctions,  and 

[306] 


MORALITY  AND  RELIGION 

destroy  the  values,  of  both  morality  and  religion. 
The  path  of  unreason  and  insincerity  can  never 
conduct  to,  or  toward,  either  of  the  two  ideals, 
however  conceived,  if  in  fidelity  to  fact  and  to  a 
measure  of  right  thinking.  But  neither  does 
duty  permit  of  indifference  or  carelessness,  toward 
the  objective  facts,  the  rational  truths,  the 
inward  experiences,  of  the  religious  life.  Positive 
irreligion  has  always  —  and  never  without  justice 
—  been  considered  to  savor  of  immorality.  The 
undevout  attitude  toward  the  Universe,  the 
attitude  of  hate,  or  scorn,  or  cold  neglect,  toward 
the  religious  experiences  of  the  race,  the  failure 
in  tenderness  and  sympathy  toward  those  of  our 
brethren  who  are  sincerely  devout,  —  these  dis- 
positions, and  the  conduct  which  grows  out  of 
them,  are  quite  the  opposite  of  the  cardinal 
virtues  which  morality  commends  and  com- 
mands. 

Thus  far,  then,  the  answer  to  our  main  and 
constantly  recurring  inquiry,  What  ought  I  to  do? 
is  the  same  for  every  man.  To  reflect,  to  weigh 
evidence,  to  purify  the  mind  and  heart,  to  let  in 
the  light  through  glass  washed  clean,  and  to 
submit  the  whole  man  to  the  dominance  of  what 
is  highest  and  best,  —  no  less  than  this  is  the 
practical  answer  to  our  question  when  the  call 
to  enrich  and  support  the  moral  life  by  the  reli- 
gious life  is  sounding  in  our  ears.  And  it  is  our 
firm  conviction  that  he  who  does  his  duty  coura- 
geously and  loyally  in  this  way  will  not  suffer  for 

[307] 


WHAT  OUGHT  I  TO  DO? 

long  from  a  divided  manhood  in  the  interests  of 
the  right  conduct  of  his  life. 

"And  he  shall  be  like  a  tree  planted  by  the  streams  of  water, 
That  bringeth  forth  its  fruit  in  its  season, 
Whose  leaf  also  doth  not  wither; 
And  whatsoever  he  doeth  shall  prosper." 


308 


INDEX 


APPROBATION,  the  moral,  origin 

of  the  feeling  of,  44  f . 
ARISTOTLE,  33,  49  f.,  68,  74,  143, 

149,  178,  194. 
AUGUSTINE,  303  f . 

BENEVOLENCE,  as  the  universal 

virtue,  194,  201  f. 
BHAGAVAD,  GITA,  187,  235. 
BROWNING,  63,  167  f.,  266. 
BUDDHISM,    moral    teaching    of, 

86  f. 

CARLYLE,  63. 

CASUISTRY,  nature  of,  239  f.,  241, 
246  f.;  sphere  of,  246  f. 

CONDUCT,  nature  of,  as  moral, 
15  f.,  17  f.,  57,  64  f.;  nature  of 
the  good,  57  f.,  61,  65  f.,  70  f. 

CONSCIENCE  (see  also  [Moral] 
Consciousness),  conflicts  of, 
48  f.,  239  f.,  248  f.;  nature  of, 
129,  236  f.;  settling  questions 
of,  236  f.,  245  f.,  291. 

CONSCIOUSNESS,  the  moral, 
33  f.,  129  f.  (See  also  Con- 
science.) 

CONSTANCY,  as  a  virtue,  174  f. 

COURAGE,  as  a  virtue,  161  f.,  166, 
168  f. 

CRAWFORD,  169. 

CUSTOM,  bearing  of,  on  morals, 
7f.,  100  f.,  150  f.,  Chap.  IX, 
217  f.,  220  f.;  classes  of,  221  f. 

D'ALVIELLA,  305. 


DETERMINISM,  claims  of,  114  f., 
131,  135  f.;  fallacies  of,  116  f., 
123  f.,  130  f.,  135  f.,  137. 

DISPOSITIONS,  the  so-called 
moral,  92  f .,  193  f . 

DUTIES,  classification  of,  93  f., 
98  f.;  to  Self,  94  f. 

DUTY,  concept  of,  Chap.  IV,  78  f ., 
81  f.,  90  f.,  104  f.;  as  depend- 
ent on  relations,  81  f.,  84  f.,  96; 
changing  views  of,  81  f.,  83  f., 
96  f.;  the  concrete  forms  of, 

84  f . ;    means  of  determining, 

85  f.,   239  f.;    Kant's  concep- 
tion of,  88  f.;  spirit  of,  103  f. 

EPICTETUS,  23,  26,  77,  302. 
"ETHICAL  CAUSALITY,"  3  f.,  5  f., 

126  f.,  133. 

EuD^anoNisM,  269  f .,  272  f . 
EVOLUTION,    in    morals,     29  f., 

226  f.,  255  f.,  257,  276  f.;    of 

law,  226  f. 

FICHTE,  251, 299. 

FREEDOM,  the  moral,  Chap.  X; 
as  consciousness  of  "I  can," 
109  f.,  117  f.,  120  f.,  123  f., 
125  f.,  128  f.,  133  f.,  138;  rela- 
tion to  feeling  of  "the  ought," 
lllf.,  120  f.,  125  f.,  130  f.;  as 
a  growth,  127  f .,  137  f. 

"FREEDOM  OF  THE  WILL,"  im- 
portance of  conflict  over,  113f., 
115  f.,  119  f.,  129  f.;  inaptness 
of  term,  129  f . 

[309] 


INDEX 


GOETHE,  28. 

GOOD,    the,    general  conception 

of,  55  f.,  59  f.,  61  f.,  66;  test  of, 

as  quality,  56  f.,  59  f.,   69  f.; 

the  relation   of,   to  pleasure, 

66  f. 
GOODNESS,  as  matter  of  conduct, 

61  f.,  65  f.;  as  harmony  of  the 

virtues,  76,  192  f . 
GREEN,  PROF.  T.  H.,  244  f. 

HEDONISM,    claims    of,    265  f., 

267  f.;  refutation  of,  267  f. 
HOFFDING,  131. 
HUXLEY,  298  f . 

IDEAL,  the,  nature  of  the  con- 
ception, 19  f.,  140  f.,  155  f.; 
the  moral,  20  f .,  25  f .,  29, 143  f ., 
206  f .,  208  f .,  279  f . 

IDEALIST,  the  ethical,  221. 

IDEALS,  the  moral,  Chap.  VI, 
143  f.,  155  f.,  206  f.,  286  f.; 
nature  of,  143  f.,  155  f.; 
changes  in,  147  f.;  essentially 
unchanging,  152  f.,  207  f.;  in- 
fluence of,  207  f .,  286  f . 

IMPUTABILITY,  doctrine  of,  126  f. 

INDIVIDUALITY,  of  personal  life, 
210  f .,  220. 

INTENTION,  as  related  to  the 
morally  right,  72  f.,  74  f . 

JUDGMENT,  place  of  in  moral  de- 
velopment, 36  f.,  48  f.,  145  f., 
146  f.;  conflicts  of  the  moral, 
48  f.,  239  f.;  nature  of  the 
moral,  146  f.,  166  f.,  239  f.;  as 
moral  "Tact,"  241  f. 

JUSTICE,  the  so-called  "general," 
194. 

JUSTNESS,  as  a  virtue,  166,  175, 
176  f.,  194;  Aristotle's  con- 
ception of,  194. 

[310] 


KANT,  31,  88  f.,  233  f.,  251. 
Karma,  doctrine  of,  3  f .,  260. 

LAOTSU,  145. 

LAW,  the  moral,  214  f.,  226  f., 
229  f.,  233  f.,  245  f.  current 
conceptions  of,  215  f.,  245;  as 
"external  exponent"  of  moral- 
ity, 226  f.;  Kant's  doctrine  of, 

233  f. 
LESSING,  229  f . 

LIFE,  the  moral,  sources  of, 
259  f.;  sanctions  of,  262  f.; 
values  of,  264  f.,  269  f.;  final 
purpose  of,  270  f . 

LOTZE,  174,  179,  203. 

LOYALTY,  as  the  universal  virtue, 
194,  196  f.;  Japanese  concep- 
tion of,  196  f.;  Professor Royce 
on,  198  f.,  200. 

LUYS,  M.,  131  f. 

MARCUS  AURELIUS,  231. 

MENO,  Plato's  Dialogue,  190  f., 
193. 

MORALITY,  social  influences  on, 
6  f.,  25  f.,  38  f.,  100  f.,  148  f., 
275;  relation  of  custom  to,  7  f., 
100  f.,  214  f.,  217  f.,  220  f.; 
an  affair  of  personality,  8f., 
15  f.,  36  f.,  91  f.,  141  f.,  210  f., 

234  f.,  245,  255  f.,  274  f.;    as 
involving  the  whole  man,  36  f ., 
73  f.,    141  f.;    ideal   of,   25  f., 
210  f.;    as  a  species  of  "the 
good,"   57  f.,   61  f.,   65  f.;    as 
dependent    on    motive,    72  f.; 
and  on  ideation,  140  f.,  143  f ., 
individuality  of,  210  f.;    rela- 
tion of,  to  law,  214  f .,  226  f ., 
228  f.,  233  f.;  and  to  casuistry, 
239  f.;   ultimate  principles  of, 
Chap.  XI,  257,  259  f.,  262  f., 
264  f.,  270  f.;    relation  of,  to 


INDEX 


religion,  Chap.  XII,  279  f., 
284  f.,  293  f.,  298  f. 

MORALS,  not  the  same  as  cus- 
tom, 11  f.,  213  f.;  classifica- 
tions of,  11  f.,  190  f.;  as  in- 
volving treatment  of  things, 
11  f.;  of  the  animals,  13  f.;  as 
related  to  conduct,  15  f . ;  evo- 
lution in,  29,  226  f.,  255  f., 
276  f. 

MOTIVE,  place  of,  in  morals, 
72  f.,  123  f.;  as  determined  by 
choice,  123  f. 

NATURE,  relation  of,  to  morals, 
22  f.,  224  f.,  294  f. 

"OUGHT,  THE,"  as  involving 
ideals,  18  f.,  51  f.,  62  f.;  feel- 
ing of,  Chap.  II,  33  f.,  37  f., 
52,  53,  64  f.;  origin  of,  34  f., 
38 f.,  4 If.;  moral  value  of, 
51  f.,  53  f. 

PAULSEN,  251  f. 

PERSONALITY,  the  moral,  10  f., 
33,  91  f.,  128  f.,  206  f.,  210  f., 
234  f.,  255  f.,  257  f.;  individ- 
uality of,  210  f.,  245;  sacred- 
ness  of,  245  f.;  essence  of 
morality  in,  274  f . 

PFLEIDERER,  282  f . 

"PHILOSOPHY  OF  CONDUCT," 
quoted,  69  f.,  79  f.,  135  f.,  223  f., 
251  f.,  282  f. 

PLATO,  166,  190  f.,  305  f. 

RELIGION,  relation  of,  to  moral- 
ity, Chap.  XII,  284  f^  289  f.; 
how  different  from  morality, 
279  f.,  281  f.;  as  reinforcing 
morality,  289  f.,  293  f.,  298  f ., 
302  f. 


RIEHL,  131. 
ROSKOFF,  283. 
ROTHE,  153. 

SELF,  the,  part  of,  in  moral  de- 
velopment, 35  f.,  46  f.,  117  f., 
129  f.,  206;  duties  to,  94  f.; 
the  moral,  206  f . 

SELF-RESPECT,  the  moral,  46  f . 

SIDGWICK,  PROFESSOR,  113. 

SOPHOCLES,  50,  232,  292. 

SPINOZA,  204. 

SYMPATHY,  nature  of  the  human, 
184. 

TACT,  the  moral,  241  f.;   means 

of  cultivating,  243  f . 
TEMPERANCE,  as  a  virtue,  168, 

170  f. 

TOURGUENEFF,  106. 

TRUENESS,  as  a  virtue,  180  f., 
182,  249  f. 

VIRTUES,  nature  of  the,  65  f., 
74  f.,  158  f.,  192  f.,  201  f.; 
classification  of,  65  f.,  161  f., 
164  f.,  166,  168,  191  f.,  194  f.; 
the  "Puritanic,"  74  f.;  har- 
mony of,  76  f.,  193  f.;  the  so- 
called  "cardinal,"  168  f.;  of 
the  Will,  168  ff.;  of  the  Judg- 
ment, 175  ff.;  of  the  Feelings, 
182  ff. 

VIRTUOUSNESS,  general  nature  of, 
159  f.,  Chap.  VIII,  191  f., 
194  f.,  201  f,,  206  f.;  Plato's 
view  of,  190  f . 

Visuddhi-Magga,  doctrine  of,  4. 

WAITZ,  283. 

WISDOM,  as  a  virtue,  166,  175, 

176,  195. 
WUNDT,  29,  57,  152,  187,  282. 


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33 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


